


it's the good people (you have to worry about)

by WylieCoyote98



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nile/Booker if you squint, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, assassin!Nicky, unhinged!Nicky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27211453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WylieCoyote98/pseuds/WylieCoyote98
Summary: Joe loves his job of hunting down the most dangerous criminals in the world, he really does.Lately, however, things have started to grow stale. That is until a new and mysterious assassin by the name of Nicolo di Genova enters the scene and starts taking a dangerous and obsessive interest in the veteran crime-fighter, launching the two into a long and bitter game of cat and mouse.But the longer their gambit goes on, the more Joe starts to wonder if there is more to his violent adversary than meets the eye, sending him into a dark descent of insatiable longing.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 36
Kudos: 149





	1. are you from genoa?

**NICOLO**

Nicolò had woken up early that morning to a knock on his front door. He stumbled out of bed dressed in nothing but a pair of old tartan patterned boxers and was greeted by the sight of a familiar face seated on his couch, drinking from a paper coffee cup. 

“Copley,” Nicolò said evenly. “What are you doing here?” 

Copley took a slow, careful sip from his cup before reaching inside of his suit jacket and pulling out a thick white envelope. He placed it on top of the clear glass surface of the coffee table. “Your next assignment,” Copley said, tapping the envelope with the tip of his finger. 

“How did you get in?” Nicolò asked as he sat down, ensuring that there was an entire couch cushion’s length between him and the other man. 

“Well,” said Copley. His gaze flickered around the living room and he lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “I am the one who acquired this apartment for you in the first place, it didn’t cross your mind that I would keep a key for myself?” 

Nicolò grunted noncommittally as he picked up the envelope, slipping his finger beneath the flap. He removed a small rectangular shaped business card with the words _Merrick Pharmaceuticals_ written across the top in bold blue letters.

“Another one from here?” Nicolò mused. “Will someone not… how do you say in English… put the pieces in place? See a pattern?” 

Copley stared at Nicolò unflinchingly for several silent moments before he commented off-handedly, “I thought you liked not knowing anything. Why all the questions now?”

“Curiosità”

“They won’t find you out,” Copley said, “if that’s what you’re worried about.” He paused. “Remember, you don’t exist. They can’t find someone who doesn’t exist.” 

_Right_ , thought Nicolò. 

“There is a plane ticket for this afternoon and I’ve booked you a room at the Mayflower. Tomorrow Steven Merrick will be hosting a conference at Broadway House in Central London. You’ll be able to find him in the east wing of the building. Find a moment to get him alone. They don’t really care how you do it, just make sure that you get it done.” 

“Inteso,” Nicolò said, nodding once. “While you’re here can I make you something to eat? Una frittata, forse?”

Copley softened. The change in his face was subtle. Easy to miss and to anyone else, nothing would have changed, but Nicolò was not _anyone else._ “Thank you,” Copley said. “But I’m afraid I have other matters to attend to.” 

“Ah,” Nicolò said, “I forget sometimes. I am not the only one occupying space in your life. It is difficult to imagine you doing anything else but this.” 

Copley chuckled. He stood, brushing the palm of his hand over his neatly ironed pants with one hand and picking up his coffee cup with the other. “Good luck today,” Copley said before pausing and adding casually, “though I doubt you’ll need it.” 

Soon after Copley had left, Nicolò retreated to his room to pack. He took a quick glance at the plane ticket and grinned. First-class. _Nice going, James,_ Nicolò thought, as he tucked the ticket into the waistband of his boxer shorts and began rummaging through his closet. 

Nicolò realized long ago that this particular career path he had found himself on held many perks. Nice apartment for one. Many nice apartments for two. And really, really expensive clothing. Upon many other things. He remembered pictures he had seen of Steven Merrick on the internet. The man was a billionaire, yet he did not seem to ever dress like one. Almost offensive in how casual he tended to appear. Nicolò decided that casual would be the best approach. Or, something casual on the surface. Something that looked like it could have cost less than twenty dollars from some small town’s local Goodwill but in actuality was really valued somewhere in the hundreds. Someone like Merrick, Nicolò figured, would appreciate that. 

**The venue was a bit busier than Nicolò anticipated** , but he wasn’t particularly bothered. He undid the top few buttons of his shirt and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat before he approached the building, smiling amicably at the people he passed by. Nicolò held the door open for a pair of finely dressed businessmen, but not a simple thank you was uttered by either of them. They had been following far too closely behind him for Nicolò’s taste and he resisted the urge to trip one of them as they walked by. On the plane, Nicolò had done some light reading about Steven Merrick, just a few tabloid articles here and there. One in particular had caught Nicolò’s attention. The CEO had discussed last year in a Buzzfeed article, his ritual before giving a speech in front of a crowd. _Buzzfeed,_ thought Nicolò with a snort. Merrick would retreat off on his own, where he would do some breathing exercises and pep talks to himself in the nearest mirror available. He claimed that it worked every time and he did not appreciate being disturbed during this process. He would be alone for an entire hour, Nicolò concluded. More than enough time. 

When Nicolò found Merrick, he was not, as he claimed in the article, performing mindfulness practices. He was shouting in an increasingly irritated tone, straight into his phone. Nicolò opened the door fully and walked inside, waving when he caught Merrick’s attention. The other man groaned in annoyance without making an attempt to hide it. 

Merrick covered the microphone of his phone with his hand. “Is there something I can help you with?” he questioned, voice sharp and implying that he had no intention that he meant to be of any actual help. 

“Oh,” said Nicolò, ducking his head. “Scusa. I am a fan of your work. I am a bit… What is the phrase? A dalla celebrità.” He snapped his fingers. “Starstruck.” 

Merrick looked him up and down. “I see,” he said. 

“I traveled all the way from Italy to see you here today.”

The businessman couldn’t hide his smirk. He uncovered the microphone again and said, “Listen, Keane, I’m going to have to call you back.” Merrick tucked the phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. “What’s your name?” 

“Guido,” Nicolò said, stepping forward and offering his hand. 

“Well, Guido, it’s good to meet you,” Merrick stated, taking Nicolò’s hand. It was clammy and far too hot, Nicolò realized grimly. He fought the urge to yank his hand away. Instead, he smiled with his teeth and clasped his other hand over Merrick’s. 

“It is truly an honor,” Nicolò exclaimed. “I have been following your work ever since you graduated from Cambridge and invented that new, faster-acting vaccine for cholera.” 

Merrick laughed. “You _are_ a fan then, aren’t you?” 

“Very much so. You’ve no idea how excited I am to hear you speak today Mr. Merrick.” Nicolò inhaled sharply. “I would like you to know that you have impacted my life directly. Five years ago, my dear grandmother fell ill from cancer. We tried everything we could, but she kept getting worse and worse every day, and every moment, she looked less like herself. She was a shell; a ghost before her soul even left the earth.” Nicolò blinked rapidly as if to keep the tears at bay. “But then we discovered your revolutionary cancer treatment plan.” He finally released Merrick’s hands, so that he could rub at his eyes. “My family owes you her life.” 

Merrick grinned. “You have no idea how delighted I am to hear that, Nicholas.” His right hand landed heavily on top of Nicolò’s shoulder. “Saving lives is the heart of our mission here with Merrick Pharmaceuticals.” 

“Yes, indeed,” Nicolò said. He paused, quirking his head to the side. “I hope this isn’t too much of an imposition. But I have brought you something. Just a little gift to show you my appreciation.” 

“Oh,” said Merrick, eyebrows reaching up to the top of his forehead. He clapped his hands together. “Wonderful. I accept, of course.” 

Nicolò smiled and reached for the inside pocket of his overcoat, presenting a thin, rectangular-shaped white box, sealed neatly shut with a bright red ribbon. There was a Brooks Brothers’ logo imprinted in the top right corner of the box. “I know you do not typically wear such things, but I am hoping it will suit you well anyways,” Nicolò said sheepishly, holding the box out to the other man. 

Merrick took the box and pulled the ribbon off. It drifted lazily to the ground, landing between the two men, and Merrick lifted the tie from the box, a simple thing. Pale blue with a pattern of polka dots in a darker shade. Merrick held it out in front of him, turning it about as if taking it in at multiple angles. He nodded once. “Not bad at all,” Merrick said. Though if you were to ask Nicolò, he would say that Steven Merrick was terrible at hiding his true feelings on the matter. His nose was wrinkled slightly and there was a disgusted glint in his eyes. Unappreciative bastard, Nicolò thought to himself. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Nicolò said.

Merrick grimaced. _Didn’t bother to hide it._ He smiled a moment later as if catching himself. “You’re very generous, Guido,” the CEO said.

“Why don’t you try it on now?” Nicolò mused, blinking at Merrick expectantly. 

Merrick stared at him. _Right here?_ That look said. 

“The thing is,” said Nicolò, “and I don’t wish to make you feel any sort of way, but my family and I had to contribute a great deal of money for your gift. It was worth it, don’t worry about that one bit, Mr. Merrick. I just know they would love a photo of you in it.” 

Merrick stared at him for several moments longer before he cleared his throat. “Alright then. What’s the harm in it, hm? I’ve got about thirty more minutes until I need to be out on stage. And besides; anything for a fan, am I right, Guido?” Merrick fumbled with the fabric, cursing under his breath and Nicolò reckoned that the poor man had never tied one himself before. 

“Allow me?” Nicolò mused and he took a step forward when Merrick grunted his approval. He approached the other man carefully, fingers moving with deliberateness. Nicolò lifted his gaze.

“Well?” said Merrick.

Nicolò smiled. “Perfect.” And he curled the fabric of the tie around his hand and pulled. 

The tie automatically constricted around Merrick’s neck. Merrick’s eyes widened and Nicolò thought they might pop right from the hollows in his skull. The other man first tried pulling feebly at the fabric, but Nicolò knew it would do nothing. Merrick seemed to realize this as well. He reached out towards Nicolò, grasping feebly at the air and Nicolò shoved him right into the wall, leaning his entire weight against Merrick, pulling harder. Merrick sputtered and thrashed, but he was weak. Nicolò was familiar with the type. Pampered. Spoiled. Ruined. His hands were soft and useless. Untouched by a hard day’s work. Everything handed to him from before he knew how to speak. 

Merrick’s face was getting pale, his lips blossoming into a deep shade of purple. His eyes were wet and red and he kept gasping and gagging and his lips were moving over the words “help me” and “please stop” again and again. 

“Shh,” said Nicolò. “It will be over soon, Mr. Merrick.” Nicolò lifted the hand that he wasn’t using to strangle the other man and stroked it through his thin brown hair. “Rilassare. Rilassare.” The man’s eyelashes fluttered and Nicolò patted his cheek lightly. “None of that now. Keep them open for me, per favore. You will do this, yes? Please. Just this small, tiny little favor. I am one of your biggest fans after all.”

A tear escaped and slid down the side of Steven Merrick’s cheek as a blankness overtook his entire face, his mouth hung open just slightly, eyes widened in a permanent state of shock and fear. Nicolò released his grip on the tie and watched as Merrick’s body crumpled to the floor. 

“Huh, bambola di pezza…” Nicolò observed. He stood, breathed in and then out again, brushed his palms over the front of his pants before walking over to the window at the back of the room. Nicolò pushed it open, glancing once over his shoulder at Merrick’s lifeless form, before stepping out onto the roof. 

He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head from side to side, relishing the tiny cracks he heard as he worked out the kinks. Nicolò reached into the right pocket of his coat and pulled out his MP3 player. It was an old thing that he’d had for years, it barely worked anymore, and he made a mental note to ask Copley about finding a more modern replacement. He pushed the headphones into his ears, waiting for the music to begin before he ventured further along the rooftop. 

_Non chiedermelo, quello che sai è vero._

Nicolò walked to the back of the building, peering over the edge. He looked up and down the street, and when he was sure there was no one coming along, he lifted himself over the side and dropped down into the fire escape, climbing along all the way to the bottom and into the street. 

_“_ _Ero in piedi, tu eri lì. Due mondi si sono scontrati E non potrebbero mai separarci…”_ Nicolò sang under his breath. 

* * *

**YUSUF**

The newspaper dropped onto Joe’s desk before he was even fully seated in his chair. When he looked up, his colleague, Nile, was watching him, as if for a reaction, her eyes wide and expectant. “What’s this?” Joe asked. 

Nile rolled her eyes. “I keep forgetting, you lose your ability to read before your morning coffee.” 

“Must you hurt me with such cruel words,” Joe tutted. He pulled the newspaper towards him. The headline read: _CEO of Merrick Pharmaceuticals Found Dead._ “When did this happen?” he mused. 

“Just yesterday morning,” Nile said as she lifted herself on top of Joe’s desk, her legs swinging back and forth. 

“Foul play?”

“Must be,” Nile agreed. She paused. “You know. Unless he managed to strangle himself to death.” 

Joe whistled through his teeth. “Any suspects yet?” 

“Oh yeah,” Nile said. “Surprise, surprise: the big pharma billionaire has some enemies.” 

“Hmm. Leads?” Joe mused. 

Nile sighed, “nothing too promising yet, but you know Andy, she likes to keep things close to her chest. She only tells us what she needs to.” 

“You’re learning fast,” Joe noted appreciatively.

Nile turned her head, staring out the window, a thoughtful look falling over her face. She drummed her fingers against the top of the desk, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as if something outside held all the answers she was looking for. 

“Steven Merrick’s lead scientist was found dead just a few months ago,” Nile said as if working through it out loud. 

“Right,” said Joe. “Her body was discovered in her Liverpool apartment with a Japanese throwing star in the back of her neck.” He grinned. “It was crazy. Andy let me see photos of the crime scene.” 

Nile glanced back at him. “You sound impressed.” 

“It _was_ pretty impressive,” Joe said with a one-shouldered shrug. “Do you know how long it takes for someone to master that? It’s really difficult, Nile. It’s not like shooting a gun or throwing a knife. It takes time. It takes precision and practice. It takes control. To hit her in the exact place to deliver a killing blow? Whoever murdered that woman clearly knew what they were doing.” 

Nile narrowed her eyes. “You’re like… one of those freaks who lusts after Ted Bundy, aren’t you?” she mused and when Joe laughed, she nodded her head. “Oh, yeah you’re totally a Ted Bundy lover.” 

Joe raised his hands. “I’m just making a few observations. _Objective_ observations. _Objectively_ it was impressive.” 

“Okay,” Nile snickered. “Do you think it could be the same person?” 

“Maybe,” Joe said. “If it is, it doesn’t seem like they have a particular way of killing, no pattern, so that’ll make them a bit more difficult to nail down. Any ideas?” 

“A few theories,” Nile said. “Nothing solid enough, though.” 

Just then, the front door to the building swung open and Andy strode inside, looking like a woman on a mission; looking like someone with a purpose. She walked past them, saying, “You two, in my office,” without looking their way. 

Nile and Joe exchanged a glance. “What’s that about?” Nile said. 

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Joe said as he stood. He offered his hand, palm facing upwards and Nile placed her own hand in his, allowing him to help her down. They walked together, Joe’s arm slung around Nile’s shoulder until he had to move to open the door, holding it for his colleague as she stepped inside. 

Andy seemed preoccupied with something on her computer screen. “Close the door behind you,” she instructed. 

“Ooh, I know this Andy,” Joe whispered conspiratorially, leaning his head in close to Nile’s ear. “Approach with caution.” 

“I can hear you,” Andy said. 

“All love, Andromache,” Joe stated as he and Nile took their seats in the chairs across from her desk. He pressed his palm to the space just above his heart. “I have nothing but love for you.” 

Andy shook her head. “Dramatic asshole.” She turned her monitor towards them. 

On the screen was a man, mid-thirties. Broad shoulders, tan skin, and dark hair that was cut close to the scalp. 

“This is General Aaron Keane,” Andy explained. “He is, well, _was_ a close associate of Steven Merrick and Doctor Meta Kozak. Worked as a security guard for them and anywhere Merrick went, so did he.” 

Nile frowned. “Wait a minute,” she said, “then shouldn’t he have been with Merrick in London?” 

“Supposedly, yes,” Andy agreed. “But as far as witness accounts go, they didn’t see him anywhere near Merrick in the hours before or after his body was found.” 

“Where was he?” Joe asked. 

Andy raised an eyebrow. “In a bar at least five miles out from the convention venue.”

“So… we’re thinking he could be a suspect,” Nile ventured. “Or at least, do we think he could have hired someone to do the job for him?” 

“I don’t think so.” Andy folded her hands in front of her on the desk. She leaned forward, expression sharp and serious. “I think he’s the next target,” Andy said. 

“What makes you say that?” Joe asked. 

“Call it an instinct,” Andy answered, shrugging with one shoulder. “At the end of the week, Keane is attending a cocktail party in New York with some of his old military buddies. It’ll be his first public appearance since Merrick’s death. I’m putting you two on the guest list.” 

Nile glanced at Joe and then back at Andy. “Do you really think someone would try to pull something so soon?” she said. 

“We can’t be too careful,” Andy replied. 

Joe leaned over and nudged Nile with his elbow. “This’ll be fun,” he said. “I always love these kinds of missions.” 

“It’s not supposed to be fun, Joe,” Andy said. 

“It kind of is, though,” Joe argued brightly. “Dressing up. Drinking. A little bit of dancing. Much better than those terrible stake outs you kept making me go on in 2010.” 

Andy sighed heavily and said, pointedly ignoring him, “Try to find something to wear for the event by tomorrow. Remember. You’re meant to blend in. Nothing too flashy.” She lifted her gaze, meeting Joe’s with a raised eyebrow. “Joe.” 

Joe nodded. “Nothing too flashy,” he agreed, giving her a thumbs up. “I got you, boss.” 

Andy sighed again. “That’s all,” she said. “I’ll give you both more details as the date gets closer.” She turned the monitor back around to face her, focusing her attention on something else entirely for several long seconds before she looked up again, eyes flickering between Joe and Nile. “You can leave for the day,” Andy stated. 

They stood together, quickly. Nile gave her a small, unreturned smile while Joe waved. 

“You up for some brunch?” Joe mused. 

Nile groaned dramatically and nodded her head. “Yes, god, I’m so hungry I could eat my own left foot.” 

“Great. Just let me grab some things and we can head out.”

A contemplative, hesitant look came over Nile’s face. She seemed to consider it, reconsider it, and then consider it again before she took a deep breath, asking, “Do you think Booker might want to join us?”

“Probably not,” Joe said, a fraction too quickly. 

“The man is bored out of his mind,” Nile pressed. “I’m sure he could use a little excitement.” 

“And whose fault is that?” Joe questioned. 

“It was a whole year ago, Joe,” Nile insisted. 

They tried to avoid the subject as much as possible, but sometimes, it reared its ugly head. It appeared like the dust in those little places you forgot to clean, building up over time, until one day you just so happened to put your hand down on the surface and accidentally drew out the filth. Nile had still been new. Fresh off the plane from Chicago. Wide-eyed and excited. Still untouched by the terrors a job like theirs could produce. 

For the first few weeks, she shadowed Sebastien Le Livre. Or, as they tended to call him, Booker. He was a disgruntled, disenchanted Frenchman who had worked for the team for ten years. Though in more recent years, he came into work hours late, smelling horribly of the previous night’s bender. It was a wonder to many of the other agents, why Andy hadn’t fired him yet. But Joe knew. The three of them; Andy, Booker, and Joe, went way back. They’d worked together for years. Andy, for all her toughness and gravitas, had a soft spot for Booker and Joe alike. She forgave their mistakes easier. She overlooked their flaws, and some, who didn’t know any better, would have called it her weakness. But Joe knew her better. It took strength, giving people second chances, third chances, fourth chances; and assigning Booker the responsibility of integrating Nile into their carefully oiled machine, was the most recent one. 

In those weeks Nile followed him around, beaming and determined, and ready for anything. Miraculously, Joe watched as Booker’s rough exterior began to slowly chip away, falling apart little by little. He started smiling more, he stopped reeking of booze. It was like he had been reenergized. Joe couldn’t blame him. There was something bright and bold and utterly contagious about the light that Nile seemed to exude from her very being. Once, Joe had passed the shooting range and overheard something that he hadn’t heard in months. Booker was laughing. _Laughing._ Joe had never seen him laugh the way he did around Nile, and Joe thought that maybe, maybe, Booker had returned to his old self, or was very close to it. 

Then came the goddamn Magadan incident. 

“Some things we can’t just brush off of our shoulders,” Joe said flatly. “We’re adults. Full fucking adults. When we make mistakes, we have to deal with the consequences, and there’s no bigger mistake than the one that Sebastien made.”

“Did you ever talk to him?” Nile pressed. “Afterwards? If you heard what he had to say, I’m sure you would understand.” 

Joe sighed. He ran a hand through his hair. “No,” Joe said, “but I don’t want to listen to another excuse. I don’t care if he gives me an explanation for what he did. Just because there is an explanation for an action or behavior that hurts other people, that does not automatically mean it excludes it from being an excuse.” He paused. “Did you know, he hasn’t even apologized yet? Not to me.” At this, Nile shook her head. “I don’t think I want to hear anything he has to say until he’s apologized. I think I deserve that much, ” Joe continued.

“Is life ever really about what we deserve?” Nile mused. 

Joe paused, considering. “Not usually,” he said. “But it’s certainly nice to hope.”

* * *

**NICOLO**

“I love parties,” Nicolò said plainly as he turned over the excessively decorated invitation. Copley had found him sitting alone at a local Liverpool cafe just a half an hour ago and the two had debriefed quickly before Copley presented him with the thick piece of paper. “You know me so well,” Nicolò commented.

Copley raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t for leisure, Nicolò,” he said. “It’s your next target.” 

Nicolò breathed out a huff of laughter. “You’re not being serious, are you?” Copley nodded. “Oh, he is not going to be happy about that.” 

“He doesn’t have much of a say.”

“Of course.” 

Copley stared at him. “You don’t seem too bothered.” 

“He was always a bastard,” Nicolò said with a shrug. “I think this is exciting. Perhaps I can convince him to dance before I kill him.” 

Copley squinted. “You don’t like dancing.” 

“Maybe I did not like dancing once, but I am allowed to change my mind,” Nicolò dismissed. “Am I not?”  
“I suppose…” Copley said.

“And do I not always get the job done for you?” Nicolò pressed. 

Copley sighed. “Yes, Nicolò. You do.” He paused. “How about I make a deal with you? You accomplish this. Quickly. Efficiently. And I will take you out somewhere to go dancing. Hmm? How does that sound?” 

“ _James,”_ Nicolò said, “are you propositioning me?” 

Copley’s face heated. “No,” he sputtered. “I would never. I was just - I…” 

“Relax,” Nicolò chuckled softly. “I am joking with you. You are so easy, you know.” He shrugged. “That would be nice.” He paused. Looked off somewhere, out the window, into the busy streets, a tiny smile drawing across his lips and he lifted his hand to wave at the couple passing by. “Se vuoi, dovresti portare tua moglie. Se ci si sente abbastanza bene.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Copley’s shoulders stiffen. “What did you just say?” Copley demanded. 

Nicolò’s smiles widened, just slightly, just barely enough to notice, and he looked back at Copley. “You understood me,” he said lightly. Nicolò stood, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He reached out and squeezed Copley’s shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.” 

* * *

**YUSUF**

“I told Andromache that this wasn’t necessary,” Keane said sharply. 

“Good afternoon to you too, General,” Joe said. Beside him, Nile snickered. 

Throughout the entire week leading up to the event, Joe and Nile had strategized together on how they would approach the mission and they had come to the decision that they would split up during the night, both covering as much ground as they could across the venue, each keeping an eye on Keane. They’d discussed it at length: several times over coffee in between breaks during their daily work shifts, as they walked through the streets together when they’d been out shopping for the right things to wear for the party. It was a bit excessive if you were to ask Joe but he reckoned it was to be credited to Nile still being relatively new. Nile had only been on a handful of missions before and the last major one hadn’t gone particularly well, though Joe felt that was more of Booker’s fault than anyone else’s, she seemed to carry a bit of guilt from the ordeal; felt like she had to redeem herself in some way. 

Keane crossed his arms over his chest. “Even if something was going to happen tonight,” he said. “Which it won’t. I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“Oh, we don’t doubt that,” Joe said. “We’re just taking precautions.” 

Keane glared at him. “Fine. Just stay out of my way.”

Once Keane was gone, Nile turned to Joe. “What a jackass,” she murmured. “How does he expect us to protect him _and_ stay out of his way at the same time?” 

“I have no idea,” Joe sighed. “But if we’re going to get through this night, I think we’re both going to need a drink and I definitely think we should take advantage of the open tab.”

“Is that really a good idea?” Nile asked. 

“Probably not,” Joe said. “Do you want anything?” 

Nile shook her head. “I’m still the new kid,” she said. “I’d rather not risk getting my ass chewed out by Andy.” 

Joe laughed and said, “Suit yourself,” before adjusting his tie and heading off towards the venue bar. 

There was a man standing there. He was dressed in a deep maroon colored suit and he leaned across the bar, speaking in a smooth, lilting voice with the bartender. Joe thought he could make out fragments of German. When the man leaned back, Joe caught a flash of bright, seafoam green eyes. When the man’s gaze landed on Joe, the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. Like he wanted to smile but was afraid to. There was something unbearably sweet about it; something that felt deeply, purely untouched by the violence and the viscera of the world. He had fair skin that seemed to glow under the light of the chandeliers overhead and there was a small, pin-sized mole on the left side of his jaw. Joe had the overwhelming and utterly unexplainable urge to reach out and touch it. 

“Excuse me,” the man said. He had an Italian accent that sounded distinctly Roman, despite the language Joe had previously heard him speaking in. “Do I have something on my face?” the man asked, and there was an air of playfulness tugging at the edge of his question. 

“No, no,” said Joe. “Sorry.” 

“I’m not in your way, am I?” 

“No. Not at all,” Joe said and hoped that the man couldn’t tell he was blushing. He cleared his throat meaningfully as he leaned against the bar, trying to play it off. Joe thought he heard the bartender snickering. 

“You look...” said the man, “ _nervous_.” And that careful smile widened just slightly. 

“You must have me mistaken for someone else,” Joe said. 

The man quirked his head to the side. “Would you allow me to get you something to drink?” he asked. “To help calm your non-existent nerves.” 

“I don’t know. Accepting drinks from strangers isn’t the safest of practices. You look like an intelligent man. I’m sure you understand,” Joe said, grinning despite his own words. 

The man held out his hand. “Paolo,” he said, and Joe accepted the man’s hand. He had a firm, self-assured grip. 

“Joe.” 

“Very nice to meet you, Joe,” Paolo said. “Now that is out of the way; will you allow me to buy you a drink?” 

Joe’s smile widened. “Well played, Paolo,” he said. 

“Does an old fashioned suit you well enough?” Paolo mused. 

“It’s like you can read my mind. That would be perfect.” 

Paolo nodded sharply and turned to the bartender. “Zwei altmodisch, mein Freund,” he exclaimed, and he angled his body back towards Joe. “Tell me. What brings you here tonight. How do you know the guest of honor?” 

“Oh, Keane and I have known each other for years,” Joe said, the rehearsed lie falling easily from his lips. “We became fast friends when he was stationed over in Morocco.” 

“You served?” Paolo asked.

Joe nodded. “Ten years out of college,” he said. 

“Impressive,” Paolo said. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is the reason? Did you always want to be a military man?”

“Oh definitely,” Joe said. “I come from an entire line of military men. My father and his father and his father before him. Military women too, not just the men. Both of my sisters and a handful of cousins.” 

“And what are you doing now?” Paolo mused. 

Joe shrugged. “A little of this, a little of that. I’m kind of in-between jobs right now. I’m…” he trailed off. “I’m a bit like a leaf in the wind. Drifting about, not quite sure where it’s going to land.” 

Paolo nodded. “I know what you mean. Is there something you’d like to do?” 

Joe shrugged. “I’ve always enjoyed art,” he said. “Painting, charcoal, colored pencil sketches; all of it. Ever since I was young. I thought about going to school for it.”

“I feel there is a ‘but’ to come,” Paolo observed. 

“You would be right,” Joe sighed. “My parents wanted me to get a degree in something more viable, so when I got out of the military, I’d have better options for myself. And maybe they were right. There isn’t exactly an abundance of jobs out there for an artist. It’s quite the rarity.”

Paolo watched him, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I think,” he said, “that you are precisely the kind of man who could find that rarity.” 

Joe laughed. “You may be giving me too much credit.” 

“I have always been one to think that life is only truly worth living if you’re doing something you love,” said Paolo. 

“And you, Paolo?” Joe mused. “Are you doing something you love?” 

“You could say that, yes,” Paolo answered. The bartender passed them both their drink and Paolo took his, lifting it up and out towards Joe. “Well, here’s to life then.” 

“And doing what we love,” Joe agreed, taking his own drink. “Or at the very least, trying to.” 

They tapped their glasses together. Paolo took one long sip, emptying his glass to the near halfway mark before he set it back down, his hand coming up to touch Joe’s upper arm and Joe felt a jolt of warmth travel through his body, all the way down to his toes. “If you will excuse me for one moment,” he said. “There’s something I need to tend to.” 

“Of course,” said Joe.

“Perhaps I will find you later.” 

“Perhaps.” 

Paolo smiled, hand lingering for several moments longer before he moved past Joe. He watched the Italian man until he’d lost him to the crowd and even then, he kept looking as if hoping to find him. And he couldn’t of course, but that didn’t stop him. 

* * *

**NICOLO**

Nicolò had seen Keane disappear out of the room and had followed shortly behind. He kept a careful distance from the other man. Keane had seemed jittery. He was constantly glancing over his shoulder and cursing under his breath. Nicolò watched from around the corner as Keane stepped into the bathroom, waited a minute or two, before going in after him. 

“Aaron,” Nicolò greeted. “It’s so good to—” he was slammed against the closed door of the bathroom, Keane’s arm pressed into his throat. “... so good to see you,” he sputtered. 

Keane narrowed his eyes, hissing, “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“Can I not say hello to an old friend?” Nicolò mused innocently. “It has been years.” 

“Did they send you?” Keane demanded, pushing harder against Nicolò. “Hmm? Did they send you? _Tell me_.”

Nicolò coughed and coughed, his hands gripping at Keane’s arm. “I have no idea what you could be talking about,” he said hoarsely. 

“You were never a very good liar, Nicolò,” Keane chided. “ _You’re a goddamn idiot_ .” He leaned forward, head close to Nicolò’s ear. “Did the Twelve really think you would be able to kill _me_? I’m the best they’ve got for Christ’s sake. You’re not walking out of here. I’m not letting you walk out of here. ” 

“You…” Nicolò coughed once more, fingers fumbling around at his side. “You were always far too arrogant for my liking.” 

Keane bared his teeth. “When you’ve seen the things I have when you’ve done what I’ve done, you earn the right for a little arrogance.” 

“Can we talk, please?” Nicolò said. 

“No,” Keane growled. “I don’t think we can.”  
Nicolò blinked rapidly, fighting the wetness that was pressing involuntarily at the backs of his eyes. “Are you really, truly sure about that, Aaron?” Nicolò questioned. “I wouldn’t want you to…” he strained and struggled against Keane. “... I wouldn’t want you to have regrets.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

Nicolò sighed shakily. “Do not think…” he wheezed, “... that I didn’t give you a chance.” He moved his hand and in an instant, there was a distinct whooshing sound and Keane’s arm fell away. Keane stumbled back, eyes wide. Stunned. He looked down to find an ever-expanding patch of blood, seeping through his crisp white shirt. His gaze moved across Nicolò in wild confusion until it landed on the pistol in his hand, silencer capped onto the top. 

“Fucking asshole,” Keane spat, lunging at Nicolò, only to be shot again, square in the chest and then right after in the shoulder and when Nicolò walked up to him, pushing him hard, into the stall, Keane crashed to the floor. 

“Would it make you feel any better if I apologized?” Nicolò mused, almost to himself. 

“Fuck you,” Keane spat. His lips were spattered with blood. “They can’t do this to me. I’m not some horse you can take out to pasture and shoot dead. _I’m the best they’ve got_.”

Nicolò frowned. “Yes, you do keep saying that. Yet, caro, Aaron. Here we are.”

“I am not going to lose to Nicolò di fucking Genova,” Keane hissed. 

“Oh…” Nicolò whistled through his teeth and crouched down beside Keane. He grabbed the other man’s jaw in his hand and shoved the tip of the pistol into his mouth with the speed of the expert marksman he was and fired. “But you just did,” Nicolò said mournfully. 

* * *

**YUSUF**

“Joe,” Nile said, grabbing his arm. Her dark eyes were wide. “Have you seen Keane anywhere?” 

Joe looked around as if the answer would present itself easily. “No.” 

“Shit,” Nile cursed. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for him,” Nile said. Her hands were shaking. “I don’t know what happened. I’m so sorry, Joe.” 

Joe frowned, grabbed both of her trembling hands in his. “What happened?” he asked. 

“He told me he had a call he needed to take…” Nile squeezed her eyes shut, “god, I’m such an idiot. I should’ve gone with him.” 

“Hey, Nile? Look at me,” said Joe. He touched the side of her face. “I’m sure everything is going to be okay. Right? I’ll look for him with you.” 

Nile breathed in sharply. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” 

“You take the left-wing of the estate,” Joe said, “I’ll take the right. If you see anything, if you need anything, just call me and I’ll come to find you. Not a second thought. Whatever you do, don’t go into anything on your own.” 

Nile managed a laugh. “Alright, _dad_ ,” she said. 

Joe took a moment to feel beneath his suit jacket, taking comfort when he found his handgun still there before he moved through the crowd and out of the room. He felt his heart fluttering against the cavity of his chest. If there was anything that Yusuf al-Kaysani trusted in this world, it was his own instincts, and his instincts were telling him that something wasn’t right, but he wasn’t going to tell Nile that. It would do neither of them much good. Joe walked through the expansive hallways of the building, the echo of his footsteps bouncing off of the walls. He checked in the kitchen, but none of the cooks had seen the elusive man anywhere. He stepped out onto the balcony where several men in military dress were standing together smoking and laughing and at the sight of Joe they fell silent instantly, casting him wary glances. Joe smiled and waved at them in spite. 

His heart kept thrumming like a drum in his ears. Joe reached the men’s bathroom and pushed the door open. 

“Fuck,” he said. 

Even before the police filed in, herding panicked groups of people out of the building, and going about their other duties, Nile was a mess. She leaned against the side of one of the police cruisers with her head in her hands. 

“Nile,” Joe said softly as he walked up to her.

“This is all my fault,” Nile murmured, voice muffled. 

Joe sighed and came to stand beside her, arm brushing against hers. “I think it might be a little more complicated than that.” 

Nile’s hands fell away from her face. “What could be so complicated, Yusuf?” she demanded. “I fucked up. I really, really fucked up. We weren’t supposed to let him out of our sight and I did and did it when I should have known better. Andy has every right to fire me.”

“She won’t do that,” Joe argued. 

“You don’t know that,” Nile dismissed. 

“Nile, if Andromache was willing to give Booker another chance, then she’ll do the same for you.” 

Nile shook her head, laughing humorlessly. “She’s known Booker for a decade,” Nile said. “She’s barely known me a year.” 

“But she likes you,” Joe said and Nile snorted. “She really does.”

“Weird way of showing it sometimes…” Nile grumbled.

“That’s Andy for you. But what happened here tonight? It was an honest mistake. Mistakes happen to all of us.” Joe chuckled. “Even me.”

“This isn’t funny,” Nile muttered. 

“I know it’s not,” Joe said. “I’m just saying, don’t let this beat you. We can’t save all of them.” 

“It would be nice if we could,” Nile said. 

“It would,” Joe agreed. “But it’s not.”

“But it’s not,” Nile echoed. 

Joe watched as the ambulance pulled up. “If you want,” Joe said. “We can go back to headquarters. See if there are any details from the Merrick and Kozak case we might have missed. If that would make you feel like you’re doing something.”

“I’d like that,” Nile said. “Maybe I can do at least a little something useful with myself tonight.” 

The rest of the staff had long gone home and it was just Nile and Joe left in the office. They both settled in in the staff lounge, Joe on the couch and Nile sitting at the white fold-out table. Nile was re-examining the crime scene photos from the Merrick case, while Joe half-heartedly scrolled through the list of names on the Keane party guest list, trying to decide who would best be to question first. For each name, there was a photo identification right beside it. He scrolled through the list of names once, twice, and then a third time. Something wasn’t right. `

“Nile,” Joe said distantly. His gaze was still flickering desperately over the images on the computer screen. Searching. Dreading. Hoping. 

“What’s wrong?” Nile asked. 

“Bring me my sketchbook,” Joe said, “please.” 

Nile recognized that tone. She nodded sharply before hurrying to Joe’s desk, opening the drawer where she knew she kept his drawing materials and grabbed one of the man’s many sketchbooks. Nile returned to him with the book and a charcoal pencil, handing him both as he took a seat on the couch. His hand moved quickly. 

About ten minutes later, Joe lifted the sketchbook to his face and blew away the excess residue. He held on with a white knuckled grip as he turned the page around to face Nile. 

“Please tell me you saw this man at the party too,” Joe said. 

Nile leaned forward. She frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Why?” 

“Ya Ibn el Sharmouta…” Joe murmured. He turned the sketch back around towards himself, looking down into that deep, intense expression, nowhere near capturing it the way Joe wanted to capture it in mere black charcoal. Joe thought the quick scrawls represented the man poorly, though he reckoned that even the most luxurious of art materials could not accurately portray that face. Those eyes. “I spoke with him at the bar.” 

“It doesn’t look like he’s on the guest list,” Nile observed. “Did you get a name?” 

Joe grimaced. “He said his name was Paolo, but now I’m thinking that might not have been entirely true.” 

“Did you tell him your real name?” Nile asked. 

“No.” 

Nile gave him a look. 

“Maybe.” 

“ _Joe._ ” 

“What?” 

“If this is our guy,” said Nile, “then we can’t have him knowing your name.” 

Joe glanced at the sketch once more, tracing the tip of his finger over the outline of the man’s face. “It wasn't as if I gave him my _full_ name,” he said and when he lifted his finger from the page again it was stained black, seeping into the outlines of his fingerprint. 

“Is there a chance he could figure it out though?” Nile pressed and when Joe snorted, she said, “I’m being serious. This is a real, dangerous criminal we’re dealing with here. We don’t know what he’s capable of.” 

Joe rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I don’t know, Nile,” he said, though somewhere in the back of his mind, he was starting to doubt himself. Something about the way Nile was looking at him; something about the way her foot was tapping restlessly against the floor. “Would you stop that? Please?”

“No,” said Nile bluntly. “I think you’re not taking this seriously enough.” 

“Wow, Freeman, I didn’t realize you cared that much about me,” Joe chided, meaning it as a joke then recognizing, with a bite of horror, his mistake, when Nile’s expression shifted from frustrated to mournful. 

“Of course,” she said softly. “Look. You worry me sometimes.” 

“Hey.” Joe stood from the couch and closed the space between them. He placed both his hands on her shoulders, squeezing lightly. “It’s going to be alright.”

Nile smiled with half of her lips. “Famous last words.” 

“We’re going to find this guy,” Joe continued. 

“We will,” Nile agreed. “Just don’t be such a dumbass about it.”

“In my defense…” Joe said. “I really did think I was just talking to a particularly good-looking stranger.” 

“I know, Joe.”

“He seemed perfectly normal.” 

“I’m sure he did.” 

“He might still be perfectly normal.” 

“Maybe.” 

“Would it be wrong, to hope, just a little bit, that he’s perfectly normal?”

“Umm… sort of.” 

“He was nice. He bought me an old fashioned.” 

“Please tell me you didn’t drink it.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do with it?”

Nile slapped Joe on the chest and his head tipped back with laughter. “And I thought _I_ was the fuck up here,” Nile chided. 

Later that night, Joe sat in the darkness of his apartment, the only light, sharp and illuminating, from his television screen. He sipped idly from the beer bottle in his hand, occasionally lifting his fork to shovel another bite of day-old Chinese food into his mouth, and in the back of his head, somewhere deep and all too real, he couldn’t stop seeing that man’s face; couldn’t stop hearing his voice. 

_We’ll start with the bartender from the party_ , Joe thought to himself. _Ask him some questions. What was the man and he talking about? Could he tell them anything?_

It was half-past twelve and Joe wondered if he should have been to bed by now when there were two sharp knocks. He frowned, stood slowly, like his limbs needed to wake themselves back up, and he walked to the door. Joe peered through the peephole only to find the hallway empty. Odd, he thought, before unlatching the lock. He looked up and down the halls. Still nothing. Joe was about to step back inside when he noticed the folded piece of paper resting just outside of the threshold. He bent over, picking it up, unfolding the paper to find three simple words scrawled across in neat cursive handwriting: 

_See You Soon_

* * *


	2. i have a thing about kitchens.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a new day for Nicolò: a new day, a new target and he loves his work but he would rather be spending his time getting to know the handsome man he met on his latest mission. Meanwhile, Yusuf grapples with the fact that he may be losing his touch, as he reconnects with an old friend.

**YUSUF**

They had been staring at the note for nearly five minutes now, not a word passing between them. Nile’s elbows pressed into the table, face resting in her palms, while Joe leaned back in his own seat, both hands tucked behind his head. Both of their gazes were fixed determinedly on the small slip of paper as if it would vanish before their eyes should they look away. It was late, or early, depending on who you were asking. Nearly two o’clock. Joe had sat alone, turning the note over in his own hand for several hours, caught up in the darkness and the emptiness of his apartment before he had called and awoken his colleague. At the turning of the half-hour, Nile finally said, 

“Well, what the ever-loving fuck, Joe.” 

“What?” Joe said. 

“You told me he couldn’t find out where you lived!” Nile exclaimed.

Joe squinted. “I don’t recall making that promise,” he said. “And we don’t even know if this is him.” Nile fixed Joe with a stern glare. “Okay, you’re right, it’s definitely him.” 

Nile rubbed at her eyes and she sighed heavily. “Do you feel safe?” she asked. “My couch is open if you want to spend a few nights.” 

“You don’t need to do that,” Joe said. 

“ _ Joe,  _ he found your apartment,” Nile pressed. “I’m not offering because I’m feeling particularly generous, I’m doing this because it’s the safest option we’ve got.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Joe insisted. “I keep my gun on me at all times, plus, it’s not like he can get in through a locked door, right?” 

Nile raised an eyebrow. “And you’re confident about that, are you?” 

“I am.”

“The same way that you were confident he couldn’t find your address,” Nile said. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Listen, Joe, you can either stay over at my place by choice, or I’m going to call Andy and she’s going to make you do it by force.” 

Joe blinked. “You wouldn’t,” he said. 

Nile crossed her arms over her chest. “I would,” she said, “Someone’s got to look out for you if you won’t.”

“Would it make you feel better?” Joe asked softly. “If I spent a few nights?” 

The two colleagues locked eyes, staring each other down wordlessly for several long beats of silence and when Nile didn’t speak, Joe knew what the answer was. He sighed heavily, nodding his head. “Just give me five,” he said. “Let me grab some things first.” 

Nile breathed in and then out again. “Thank you,” she said. 

“Hey,” said Joe. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You know that.” 

“I do,” Nile said. She smiled a bitter, half-hearted sort of smile. “And you know I feel the exact same way.” 

“I do,” Joe echoed. “Five minutes. I’ll be right out.” 

He walked to his bedroom and shut the door lightly behind him, careful not to make a sound and he pressed his back against the wall, tilting his head up, staring at the light fixture up above, wondering just what the fuck they had gotten themselves into. Joe walked to the bathroom and stood at the sink, turning the tap on. He let the cold water flow for several moments before he gathered it in his palms and splashed it onto his face. Joe straightened and ran a damp hand through his hair and he met his own dark gaze in the mirror. 

Joe breathed in and held it strong for several seconds before letting it out again, before he stepped back out into the bedroom and retrieved his duffle bag from the closet, throwing clothing inside of it. He held on tight to the handles of the bag and found Nile helping herself to a glass of water in his kitchen. 

“Ready?” Nile asked. 

“Ready,” said Joe. 

Nile downed the rest of her water and placed the glass in the sink. “You’re lucky you have me around looking out for you,” she teased. 

Joe placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly, angling Nile towards him. “I am,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” said Nile, reaching up to grab his hand in hers, holding it for several seconds before releasing him again. “Come on. I’ve got some prosecco in the fridge.” 

* * *

**NICOLO**

Nicolò tapped his fingers against the railing, gaze fixed on some indeterminate location outside of the bus. The music blasted through his headphones so loudly that the strangers around him could hear the notes and were sending him pointed looks. Nicolò only smiled back, giving them an occasional wave of the hand. One man in particular; kept mumbling under his breath, obscenities, and curses about how entitled young people tended to be these days. 

“Excuse me?” said Nicolò, taking out one of his earbuds. “Is there something I can help you with?” 

“You can turn down your fucking music, that’s what you can do,” the man snapped. “You’re not the only one on this bus, you know.” 

Nicolò flashed the man with a tight-lipped smile. “You’re right,” he said. “Apologies. I will be more aware of my surroundings the next time. You know, I’m glad that you said something. My friends have told me I can be oblivious.” 

The man rolled his eyes. “Oblivious is one word for it,” he murmured. 

“Again,” said Nicolò, his fingers curled around the railing. “I do apologize.” 

The man turned away, shaking his head. Several more minutes passed before the bus pulled up on the side of the road and the man departed, grumbling to himself all the way. Nicolò waited for a beat and then another before he pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat, got up, and followed the man off of the bus, keeping a careful distance as he weaved through the crowd. The music hammered through his head like the steady beat of a drum. His heart thrummed in time to the melody. Easy. Calm. There were too many people around presently; he just needed to be careful. Nicolò followed behind the man for five minutes more when the man paused, stopped in the middle of the street, before carrying on again. 

_ Interesting,  _ thought Nicolò. They kept walking until the man turned abruptly down a dark, murky alleyway.  _ Very interesting.  _ He turned and half a moment later, he felt a hand come up around his throat and his back was crashing into the cool brick wall of the alley. 

“Who the fuck are you?” the man snarled and a bit of dribble slipped past his bottom lip. 

“ Sono qualcuno con cui non avresti dovuto scopare,” sighed  Nicolò. 

The man squinted his eyes. “What did you just say?” he demanded. 

Nicolò lifted his knee, driving it hard and fast into the man’s stomach and he buckled over immediately, releasing his grip on Nicolò’s throat. Nicolò reached down and grabbed the man by his hair, lifting his head, fingers curled tightly in the strands before delivering a mordant strike across the face, the hit sending the man sprawling onto the ground. 

“Motherfucker,” the man hissed, spitting out a wad of blood and he lunged. 

Nicolò kicked the man in the side once, knocking him back down; twice, a third time, then a fourth and he grabbed the man by the back of the neck and drove him towards and into the wall, slamming his face into the bricks over and over. There was a sickening crunch and the man’s nose exploded in a fountain of deep crimson red. 

“ _ Nicolò _ .” 

Nicolò turned his head to find Copley standing at the head of the alleyway, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows furrowed. “Ciao, James,” Nicolò greeted, waving with his free hand. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Copley demanded, striding over to the young assassin, grabbing him by the arm. 

“Nothing,” said Nicolò with a one-shouldered shrug. “Just a little… fun.”

“ _ Fun, _ ” Copley echoed. 

“Si,” Nicolò said. “Fun. Does this not look like fun to you?” 

Copley pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Nicolò, you can’t…” he trailed off, inhaling sharply, and then letting his breath out again. His grip on Nicolò’s arm tightened as he pulled him away from the man who was now curling in on himself, groaning and sobbing. “You can’t just go around killing random people in broad daylight.” 

“And why not?” Nicolò questioned, tugging his arm free from Copley’s hold. “He was rude.” Nicolò paused. “Anyways, I wasn’t going to kill him. I was merely teaching him a lesson.” 

“Pretty violent lesson,” Copley observed, glancing over his shoulder. There was a car, pulled up to the side of the road and Copley reached over, opening the passenger-side door and holding it open. “Get in,” he instructed. 

Nicolò raised an eyebrow. “Where are we going?” 

“I think you’ve lost the privilege of asking questions at the present moment,” Copley said flatly. “ _ Get in _ .” 

“You seem to be in a poor mood today,” Nicolò noted. Still, he slid into the car.  “ Qualcuno ha bisogno un drink…” he murmured. 

Copley slammed the door shut, walking around the car, and stepping behind the driver’s seat. “You need to be more careful,” Copley said, under his breath, half to himself, as he pulled the car away and began driving down the street. He glanced at Nicolò, then back down the road. “This isn’t like you. You aren’t usually so sloppy.” 

Nicolò shrugged. He slumped against the window. “Perhaps I am becoming bored,” Nicolò said. 

“Bored?” Copley mused, barking out a disbelieving laugh. “How can you possibly be bored?” 

“ Molto facilmente,”  Nicolò said. He glanced out the window and then back over at Copley. “How did you find me?” 

Copley’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel incrementally. “Very easily,” he said, and Nicolò made a look of distaste with a distinct amount of annoyance. “Open up the glove compartment. You’ll find there’s something in there for you,” Copley instructed. 

“Be nicer when you ask, James,” Nicolò said, “And I may consider.” 

Copley glared at him. “Please open the glove box.” 

“That was not so difficult, now was it?” Nicolò mused. He popped open the glove box, the side of his lip curling up. “No. I don’t think it was.” Nicolò fumbled around before removing one of the manila envelopes he had become so acquainted with over the years. 

Inside this particular envelope was a collection of full-color photographs of a French villa, an address scrawled beneath one of the images, a name tag, and a train ticket scheduled for the morning of the next day. 

“What is all of this?” Nicolò mused. 

“The last of the Merrick Pharmaceuticals-related targets according to the Twelve,” Copley explained, “Benjamin Merrick, Steven Merrick’s father. That’s his summer home, but he’s been holed up there ever since the first killing.” 

Nicolò took the name tag between his fingertips and brought it closer to his face, squinting. “Mickey Miranda?” said Nicolò. “Ridicolo. Who will believe it? Who’s idea was that?” 

“I’m only the messenger here, Nicolò,” Copley answered tiredly. 

“Oh, I believe you are much more than that,” Nicolò said. He paused. “If I guess who it was, will you tell me?” 

“No.”

Nicolò glanced out the window again. He swiped his tongue across his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “Was it Quynh?” Nicolò asked. When Copley hesitated, Nicolò glanced over his shoulder at the other man. “It  _ was _ Quynh.” 

“I will neither confirm nor deny,” said Copley, his gaze fixated on the road ahead as they turned onto the highway. 

“She has always been terrible with the naming business,” Nicolò said. “ _ Mickey Miranda. _ ” He shook his head. “Ridicolo. It sounds like fiction.”

Copley shrugged. “Perhaps you can bring it up at the next company retreat,” he said. 

“Ah, you are very funny, James,” said Nicolò and he leaned across the center console. “Why don’t you keep making your jokes, and then see what will happen.” 

“Empty threats are quite unbecoming of a man such as yourself,” Copley stated. 

“How do you know my threats are empty?” Nicolò mused. 

Copley blinked. “Because I know you.”

Nicolò raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you really think?” he asked. 

The other man nodded. “Wholeheartedly,” Copley replied. “Better than you know yourself, I would think.”

“Well,  _ I _ think you may have to reevaluate,” Nicolò said, looking back out the window. “I’ll deal with him. As I always do. Nice and neat, si?” 

“Nice and neat,” Copley echoed with a curt nod of the head. “Indeed.”

A smooth silence fell between the two men that lasted for at least half an hour. Nicolò kept idle watch out the window, humming softly along with the low buzz of the radio. He made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat as they crossed the town border into Blackpool. 

“James,” said Nicolò. 

Copley sighed. “Yes, Nicolò?” 

“What can you tell me about a man called Yusuf al-Kaysani?” Nicolò asked. 

“Is there any particular reason for this?” Copley mused. 

“Why am I having difficulty believing that you don’t already know?” 

One beat passed, and then a second, and a third, before Copley said, “If you were asking me for my opinion on the matter”- 

“Which I am not,” Nicolò said under his breath. 

\- “I would just leave it be. They’ll all forget about you in due time.” 

“But will  _ he _ ?” Nicolò said. 

“Undoubtedly.” 

_ We’ll just have to see about that,  _ thought Nicolò. 

* * *

**YUSUF**

“Yusuf, do you want to tell me how this man could have found your apartment?” Andy mused, her eyes carefully blank and her jaw set tight. 

Nile and Joe exchanged a glance, Nile raising an eyebrow. ‘Well, are you going to tell her?’ the look asked. ‘I don’t know, I sort of value my life’, Joe’s responding glare answered. 

“If you two are done,” Andy said, clearing her throat. “Joe.” 

“I think I might have spoken to him at the bar,” Joe said sheepishly. 

Andy tilted her head to the side, just ever so slightly and she made a non-commital noise at the back of her throat. “Okay,” she said. “So you  _ think  _ you spoke to this man at the bar. What were you doing flirting with a stranger at the bar when you were supposed to be working, Yusuf?” 

Nile and Joe glanced at each other again. “Yes, Yusuf,” Nile hummed, “Why were you talking to a stranger?” 

Joe sighed, “Alright, in my defense… Keane was a handful and I was sure I wasn’t going to make it through the night without at least  _ one drink.”  _

“Hmm,” said Andy. She tapped her fingers against the arm of her chair. One moment passed, and then the other, and she turned her head towards Nile. “Freeman,” she said, “How do you think he found Joe’s address?” 

Nile straightened in her seat. “Well…” Nile said. “I think… he may have found Joe the same way that we found him. Through the photo IDs on the guest list. We found him because he broke the rules. Process of elimination. He wasn’t on the list. No photo. But he found Joe because  _ we did _ follow the rules.”

Andy nodded her approval. “Precisely,” she agreed with a sigh. 

“I don’t mean to pour salt in the wound here,” Joe ventured, “But… I  _ did  _ suggest using code names.” Andy glared at him and Joe cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

Andy sighed again. “Do you feel safe?” she asked. 

“Why does everyone keep asking that… I mean. I don’t feel unsafe,” Joe said. 

“Keep your pistol with you,” Andy suggested. “If something happens, don’t think. Call me. Understand?” 

Joe nodded. “Understood. Completely.” 

“Good,” Andy said. “Be careful, Joe. Something tells me this isn’t the average criminal we’re used to.” 

Joe nodded again. “I think…” he said, “That you might be onto something.” 

* * *

**NICOLO**

The train ride would be nearly two and a half hours long, which was neither particularly long nor was it particularly short, but it was plenty of time enough for one thirty-something-year-old Italian man to plot his latest prospects. Nicolò had been rather disappointed in himself, after his latest so-called accomplishment, because if you were to ask him, it felt nothing of the sort. Keane’s killing had felt lazy. Too quick for what a man such as him truly deserved. Nicolò would have liked to take his time, or at the very least, do something a touch more creative than a few simple gunshots. But no matter what, it was in the past. He could make up for it with this next one. Then, there was an entirely different matter of the man he had met at the party. That handsome, charming man. Yusuf. Nicolò spent half the train ride googling and researching him and if he’d saved a few handfuls of photographs from Yusuf’s social media to his own phone, then well, who was really to blame? 

“ Would you like something to drink ? ” Asked a young woman in French, dressed in a too-tight server’s uniform. 

“No, thank you,” said Nicolò, slipping into French himself, just barely tearing his gaze away from the images, a sheepish smile still plastered on his face.

The young woman pointed to the screen of Nicolò’s phone. “ Is that your boyfriend ?” she mused. “ He is very beautiful .” 

Nicolò’s grin widened.  “ Not yet. Very soon. Hopefully .” He held up his crossed fingers. “ Actually, you know what? Perhaps I will have a drink. Is there anything you would recommend? ” 

“Champagne?” 

“That sounds perfect.” Nicolò winked.

The train clamored along for another forty minutes before pulling into the station. As Nicolò departed, he caught sight of the young woman again and she waved, calling out,  “ Good luck with your handsome man ! ” 

Nicolò stepped inside the bathroom of the train station and dropped his duffle bag to the ground. He opened it and removed the clothing that Copley had found for him, and he grimaced at the sight of the dull-colored clothing. It was a light gray, with neatly pressed black pants, and a matching thin black tie with white stripes. Also included was a name tag with that absurd moniker his colleague had coined. Nicolò dressed quickly and stepped out from behind the stall door. There were several other men, businessmen by the looks of it, who gave Nicolò unimpressed looks as he stepped between them to comb out his hair. He adjusted his tie and smoothed out the front of his shirt.

“ Nice outfit,” one of the businessmen called out as he followed his snickering companion out of the door. 

Nicolò sighed. He reached down and grabbed the handles of the duffle bag in his hand and opened the door himself. For several moments, Nicolò watched the retreating backs of the businessmen, his open hand flexing restlessly.  _ No time,  _ he thought wistfully, though the image of shoving the both of them onto the train tracks was exceptionally tempting. Nicolò signaled for a cab and stepped inside the first one to pull up along the side of the road. 

“ Où allez-vous?” the cab driver asked. 

Nicolò reached into the front pocket of his duffle and handed the driver a slightly crumpled slip of paper.  “ Est-ce que tu sais où c'est?” he asked.

The cab driver took the paper, looked it over, and nodded. “Merrick Manor. Je peux te prendre.”

“Merci Monsieur,” said  Nicolò.

France was quite pretty, the assassin thought as the cab drove out of the city and into the countryside. Nicolò leaned his head against the window, silently watching as the sights passed him by. 

“ This looks like a very beautiful place to live,”  Nicolò observed. 

The cab driver nodded. “Oui oui. It is very charming,” he agreed. “Are you here to meet someone? Vacation, perhaps?”  
“I am here for business,” said Nicolò. 

“Ah. I see. Good luck,” the driver exclaimed, “ I have heard that Monsieur Merrick can be a very difficult employer.”

Nicolò smiled and tipped an invisible hat on top of his head. “Merci, merci,” he said. “ However, I am very accustomed to difficult men, and I’m always up for a new challenge.”

It was impressive, the villa. Several stories at least and finished in a crisp white paint with a pastel teal-tiled rooftop. On either side of the building were vast, front-facing windows. The sides of the entire villa were encompassed by vibrant green hedges and at either side of the staircase leading up to the front door, was a pair of lush dogwoods. 

“C’est beau,”  Nicolò commented. 

“C’est… quelque chose,” the cab driver huffed, “ A little… obnoxious if you were to ask me.”  Nicolò snorted. “ May I help you with your bags?”

Nicolò shook his head. He reached into his pocket and handed over the payment. “ Non merci. I only have just the one. Have a lovely day.” 

The assassin stepped out of the car and watched for several seconds as it pulled away. He adjusted his tie before turning and walking up the stairs.  Nicolò extended his free hand and rang the doorbell. About three minutes passed when the door opened on the face of a small, big-eyed little girl. 

Nicolò bent at the knees so he could look her in the eyes. “ Bonjour petit. Où est ta mère?” he asked. 

Just then, a woman  Nicolò’s age, dressed in the same shirt as him, with a black knee-length skirt instead of pants came rushing over. “ Pardon. I am very sorry, Monsieur. Voici ma fille, Louisa. She likes to be helpful.” The woman held out her hand. “Mon nom est Marcia. Puis-je vous aider?”

Nicolò gripped her hand in one of his and covered it with the other. “Mickey Miranda,” he said. “ I am Monsieur Merrick’s new personal assistant.”

Marcia’s eyes brightened. “Oui! Je t'attendais. Entrez, entrez! Here. Let me take your bag.”

Nicolò shook his head and let go of the woman’s hand. “ Oh, that won’t be necessary,” he said. “When might I be able to meet with Monsieur Merrick?”

“He has gone away visiting a friend in Colmar, but he should be back by tomorrow morning,” Marcia said. “Allow me to show you to your chambers.”

The inside of the manor was impressive as well. Beautiful paintings decorated the walls and the ceilings extended up high. On top of one ceiling was a large skylight. They passed by the kitchen and it was far bigger than the average kitchen of most restaurants. 

“If I may ask, Monsieur Miranda,” said Marcia, “Where are you from? I am hearing an Italian accent, no?” 

“Genoa,” said  Nicolò, “Almost my entire life.” 

Marcia nodded. “Ah,” she exclaimed, “I have heard it’s beautiful during the summer.” 

Nicolò followed Marcia through the impressive home and into the room that had been designated as his. It was small, or, smaller than Nicolò reckoned Benjamin Merrick would have slept in himself. The bed was a twin with horrendous sheets patterned with sailboats and it left Nicolò wondering if the last person who had stayed in the room was a child. He looked to the dresser and found further proof, at least ten colorful wooden blocks. This didn’t look much like a place where children would be running around, but with this and the tiny thing who would open the door, that would seem to be the case. Nicolò tossed his duffle onto half of the bed and collapsed backward onto the other. He folded his hands on his stomach and watched the ceiling fan spin overhead. 

* * *

**YUSUF**

Joe had been scrolling through Netflix for almost an hour and Nile had been restless the entire time, and every so often she would sigh dramatically or give Joe a pointed look. “Just choose something, Joe,” Nile pleaded. “I’ve already eaten all of the popcorn.” 

“So make some more,” said Joe, eyes narrowed as he leaned closer to the television. 

“This was my last bag!” Nile exclaimed.

Joe smirked. “That’s some very poor planning on your part, isn’t it?” he mused. “So whose fault is it really?”

“Still yours, asshole,” Nile said teasingly, bumping her shoulder with his. “Okay. How about this. Close your eyes and scroll for ten to fifteen seconds. Whatever it is you land on, that will be what we watch.” 

“I think that’s a great idea, Freeman,” said Joe. He let his eyes fall closed and began scrolling. On the third count, there was a knock on the door. 

“You keep that up,” Nile said. “And I’ll go get that.” Her voice sounded off, but Joe was too preoccupied to comment. 

_ Seven, eight, nine, ten,  _ thought Joe and he opened his eyes again. “How does  _ Moneyball  _ sound to you? Nile?” He lifted his head and froze. “Booker.” 

The Frenchman stood half-behind Nile, a case of beer in his hand, and he had the decency to look at least a little ashamed. His hair was longer, and he’d grown his beard out a bit more, but other than that, he looked exactly the same as the last time Joe saw him all those months ago. Or. The longer Joe looked at him, the more it seemed that Booker had lost quite a bit of weight. 

“Hey, Joe,” Booker said. 

Nile held her finger out. “Don’t,” she said and Joe clamped his mouth shut, dark gaze burning. “I invited him. He’s my guest.” 

“And you didn’t think to, oh, I don’t know… warn me?” Joe mused. 

Nile snorted. “You say that like he’s dangerous.” 

“Well…” said Joe. 

“Joe, don’t be a dick,” Nile interjected lightly. She turned to Booker, her hand on his shoulder. “Does  _ Moneyball  _ work for you, Book?” 

Booker cleared his throat. “Fine by me,” he said. 

“You know, I was actually thinking  _ Moneyball  _ is overrated,” Joe said, “Maybe I could keep looking-”

_ “No,  _ we’re not spending any more time searching for a movie,” Nile exclaimed. “Booker, why don’t you have a seat?” 

Booker nodded. He hovered awkwardly above the couch for a moment or two, very pointedly avoiding Joe’s eyes, before taking the furthest spot away from the other man. Nile sat between the two of them and took the remote from Joe’s hand, turning on the film. 

“So…” Booker said, “Yusuf-” 

“ _ No,”  _ Joe said. 

Booker cracked open one of the beer bottles. “I was just going to ask you how you were doing,” he murmured. 

“Not right now, Sebastien,” Joe huffed. 

Booker took a long drink, emptying the bottle nearly to the halfway mark. “Right…” 

“How about you, Book?” Nile mused. “How are you?” When Joe groaned, Nile reached over and pinched the meat of his thigh. “You’re acting like a child,” she hissed under her breath and she turned back to Booker, smiling easily. 

“I’m alright,” said Booker with a small cough. “Better than I ought to be, I’m sure.” 

“Are you keeping busy?” Nile asked. 

Booker shrugged. “Andy’s been giving me some freelance work,” he said. 

“ _ She’s doing what?”  _ Joe said, in the same instance that Nile remarked, “That’s nice. What kind of work?” 

“Nothing too exciting,” said Booker, “Just some recon missions in East Europe.” 

“That’s nice,” Nile said, touching his arm, “I’m glad you’re keeping busy.” 

Booker nodded. “I am too,” he said, “Between the two of us, it’s probably a good thing. Without work, I would be sleeping in until 1:00 every day.” 

“Oh, and you don’t want that?” Nile mused. 

Booker snorted, “of course, I want that. Who doesn’t? But according to my therapist, it isn’t what one would call a ‘healthy way of coping’.”

And Nile laughed, leaving Joe to think distractedly,  _ she doesn’t laugh at my jokes like that…  _ “Wait, are you actually seeing a therapist, or was that just a joke?” Nile asked softly and Booker nodded. 

“I am…  _ actually _ seeing a therapist,” Booker said, “And you know what? It’s going well. It’s going really well.

“Book, that’s great!” Nile exclaimed. “I’m so proud of you.” 

Joe mumbled under his breath, “I thought we were watching a movie.” 

“Hush,” said Nile. 

The thick tension lingered in the room about thirty minutes more and remained with Joe to the point where thought he might become sick with his discomfort, all while Booker was enraptured by the events unraveling on the screen.  _ The bastard  _ thought Joe. Booker’s hand was pressed against the top of Nile’s back, just resting comfortably. At the halfway point of the movie, Joe pushed himself to his feet, walked behind the couch, and out onto Nile’s balcony, ignoring Nile’s calls for him to come back. Joe stood, leaning over the railing, looking down on the glowing city lights, breathing ragged, wishing desperately that he had grabbed one of those beers before he’d stormed out, or at the very least, his jacket. He was having trouble breathing, and his knuckles turned white from the strength with which he gripped the railing. 

Joe closed his eyes and he could see the chaos from Magadan all over again, playing like a horror show across the darkness. It was meant to be a simple rescue mission; a girl’s orphanage held hostage by a domestic terrorist desperate for some money. Andromache had assigned Joe, Nile, and Booker to the case. The day had already started off poorly when Booker arrived late to their helicopter. He’d appeared to them out of the cab, bedraggled and reeking of something unidentifiable. Joe thought back to that moment. He knew he should have said something. He knew he should have pulled Booker aside and talked to him. But he didn’t. 

He didn’t. 

Nile stepped out onto the balcony, pulling the glass door closed behind him and she asked pointedly, “Are you done with your temper tantrum yet?” 

“What were you thinking inviting him here?” Joe demanded. 

“Okay: one,” said Nile sternly, “do not raise your voice at me. Ever.  _ Ever.  _ And two: you need to let this go, it’s really starting to get a little bit obsessive.” 

Joe sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, I just…” he paused. “He should have known better.” 

“I know,” Nile said softly. “Of course. I know.”

“He could have gotten someone killed,” Joe continued. 

Nile nodded somberly. “But he didn’t,” she insisted, “he didn’t, and he misses you and he’s losing his mind because you won’t  _ talk to him.”  _ Nile reached out her hand and touched the side of Joe’s neck. “Promise me you’ll talk to him. Promise me you’ll at least hear him out.” 

Joe stared at her mutely for a beat, and then another, and then he let out a hefty breath. “I promise,” he said, “for you.” 

Nile smiled softly. She reached out and squeezed Joe’s arm. “Now,” Nile said, “Are you going to come back inside, or are you going to stay out here and pout some more?” 

“Give me a minute,” Joe said. 

Nile nodded once. “Don’t be too long,” she warned, pointing at him with her finger, “It’s cold out.” 

* * *

**NICOLO**

In actuality, Benjamin Merrick didn’t really show up until an entire week later and during that week, Nicolò bided his time milling about the manor and walking through the small town nearby. He quite liked it here and loathed that he would be leaving very soon. The people were nice. Kind. He’d become well-acquainted with an older woman at the vegetable stand; a grandmother with seventeen grandchildren. 

_ Someone has been busy,  _ thought Nicolò. He’d gossiped in the kitchen with Marcia and the cooks; learned more about Benjamin Merrick.  “ Pour quelqu'un qui se cache ,” Nicolò noted, leaning his head close to Marcia’s, “ Il était parti depuis assez longtemps .” 

Marcia giggled, “ Il a toujours été insouciant.”

_ I must do something in honor of his return,  _ thought  Nicolò as he strolled through the village. “Emilie,” he said to the woman at the vegetable stand, “My new boss is returning home today and I shall be meeting him for the first time later this afternoon. I would like to make a good first impression. Aucune suggestion?” 

Emilie tapped her chin thoughtfully. “ J'ai entendu dire que l'homme est tout à fait l'oenophile,” she said.

“Wonderful!”  Nicolò exclaimed, clapping his hands together. He leaned forward, gently grabbing the elderly woman by the back of her head and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Tu es brilliant!” 

He’d called Marcia several minutes later, telling her, “ Je vais prendre le reste de la journée. J'ai des projets pour l'homme de la maison.”

“Monsieur Miranda,” tutted Marcia. “Qu'est-ce que tu fais?” 

Nicolò smiled, though his companion could not see him. “You will see,  ma chère,” he said lightly, “You will see.”

He spent the next hour or so scouring the village markets for just the right bottle.  _ What would impress a man who has everything?  _ Nicolò wondered to himself, and of course, the answer, in the end, was nothing. Men like Benjamin Merrick had long outgrown their ability to be impressed, and Nicolò would go as far to say that perhaps that ability was never present at all. When you never work for things yourself, when everything is handed to you on a glossy silver platter, nothing ever really fazes you in the same way that it does the average people, and what a sad, miserable existence, to never feel a sort of wonder over anything ever. Nicolò liked to think he could still be impressed. He could still feel wonder. He wondered about the American school systems. He wondered about corrupt governments. He wondered about who the hell thought it would be a good idea to invent jeggings. He wondered the differences between platonic love and romantic love, and whether one was more valuable than the other. Yes, he could still feel wonder and he wondered about a great many things. 

Nicolò settled on an artisanal  Gevrey-Chambertin premier cru from Burgundy . Expensive. He hoped Benjamin Merrick would enjoy it. When he returned back to the manor, he went to his room first and searched his bag for a small, brown satchel containing what he would need to carry out his newest killing. He walked over to the desk in the right corner of the room and pulled out the chair, placing both the satchel and the bottle of wine on top of the smooth wooden surface, and he sat down. Nicolò hummed softly under his breath as he went to work, popping open the top of the bottle and lifting it to his mouth, drinking about half, wincing at the feel of the bright acid sliding down his throat and settling somewhere in his stomach. 

He placed the bottle down and opened the bag. Inside was just one thing; a thumb sized vial filled to the top with a clear liquid. Nicolò smiled to himself as he unscrewed the top and emptied the vial into the wine bottle. 

There came a knock on the door. “Entrez,” Nicolò exclaimed. 

Marcia opened the door and peeked her head inside. “Monsieur Merrick est ici,” she chirped. “Qu'est-ce que c'est?”  
Nicolò shrugged. “Juste un petit cadeau de bienvenue à la maison.”

“You are very kind, Monsieur Miranda,” Marcia commented. 

Nicolò grinned and said, “Yes.  On m'a dit que je suis une personne très gentille.” He pushed the chair back and stood again, walking towards the door and together he and Marcia went to greet the senior Merrick. 

They stood together, amongst the rest of the staff as Benjamin stepped out of the car, and  Nicolò watched as each of the staff ducked their heads in respect and greeted him. He did not, Nicolò noted, pay them much mind. When Benjamin reached the assassin in disguise, Nicolò stepped forward quickly, positioning himself right in front of the senior Merrick, and he heard the other workers gasp. Some of them snickered. 

“ Bonjour. Ravi de vous rencontrer,”  Nicolò greeted, extending his hand towards Benjamin Merrick. “ Je suis votre nouvel assistant personnel.” 

Benjamin sighed heavily. “Do you speak English?” he asked flatly.  Nicolò stiffened incrementally; nodded his head. “Then speak English, I don’t have time to do the translations in my head.” 

“Oui.” Nicolò cleared his throat and he pulled his hand back again. “Apologies. Yes, I can do that for you. My name is Mickey Miranda. I am your new personal assistant. Marcia may have mentioned me in her correspondence?” 

Benjamin’s gaze flickered over Nicolò for several seconds before he said, “Right.” He glanced down at his watch. “The kitchen should have my lunch ready by now. Make yourself useful and bring it to me in my study.” 

“Of course, Mr. Merrick,” said Nicolò, but Benjamin was already walking past him and into the manor. He glanced over his shoulder at Marcia. “Amical,” Nicolò commented. 

“Toujours,” Marcia sighed with a one-shouldered shrug. “Do not take it personally. He is this way with everyone.” She paused and gestured for Nicolò to come closer. He did. “I feel a bit bad for him. It must not be easy to lose your son.” 

Nicolò glanced towards the entrance of the manor. “Very unfortunate,” he agreed. 

He went to the kitchen as asked and found a tray awaiting him. The tray contained a plate packed full of a colorful variety of American foods Nicolò couldn’t quite identify. Foreign, fanciful things. He grabbed a glass and made a quick stop at his room for the wine before heading to Benjamin Merrick’s study. The man was standing, bent over paperwork strewn across his desk. Nicolò cleared his throat and without turning around, Benjamin instructed, 

“Just put it down wherever.” 

Nicolò gently placed the tray on top of a white-wood bookshelf. Upon a quick look, the bookshelf contained works of fiction by a strange combination of writers including Dan Brown, Jeremy Archer, and Steven King. He wasn’t sure whether to be disgusted or impressed. Nicolò cleared his throat once more, louder this time. 

“Yes, do you need something?” Benjamin questioned, glancing over his shoulder with a tired, unbothered expression. “I am a bit busy.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Nicolò said empathetically. “If you don’t mind my saying; I’ve heard about what happened to you. What’s been happening. I cannot imagine it. You are really quite brave, to be surviving the way you are. To be moving through life each day. I admire you. I truly do.” 

Benjamin was quiet for a moment, before turning around, leaning his back against the desk. “It has certainly been unfortunate, to say the least,” he said, voice even-toned. 

“Yes,” said Nicolò, “Very unfortunate. I have read that there has not even been a funeral.”

Benjamin sighed. “I would have liked to have one sooner,” he said, “But I cannot risk the crowd.” 

“Understandable,” Nicolò said somberly. “Hopefully soon you will feel safe enough to step out into the world once more.” 

“I fear that day will not come soon,” Benjamin sighed. He furrowed his eyebrows. “What did you say your name was again?” he asked. 

“Mickey Miranda,” Nicolò said. He lifted the bottle. “I know it’s early… but I sense you might be needing a…how do you say… uplift?” 

Benjamin raised an eyebrow. “Pick me up,” he said and he sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Why not. You know what the Americans say. It's five o'clock somewhere.” 

He was supposed to laugh, Nicolò realized, a beat or two too late. No matter. He grabbed the glass from where it had been sitting on the tray and he reopened the bottle, “I opened it a bit earlier,” Nicolò explained with a smile, “To let it breathe,” - filling the glass a third of the way before approaching Benjamin Merrick and passing it to him. 

“I am surprised,” said Nicolò, standing next to Benjamin. “That you can still work, through all of this.” 

“I am Merrick Pharmaceuticals’ last hope I am afraid,” said Benjamin. “I cannot afford to stop working.”

“Hmm, what makes you say that?” Nicolò asked thoughtfully. 

Benjamin looked at Nicolò out of the corner of his eyes. He was holding the glass, but he had yet to take a sip; he seemed to be appraising Nicolò. “Well,” Benjamin sighed, “I’m sure, if you know what has been going on, you are aware that we lost both our CEO and our lead scientist within a short amount of time. It will be difficult to come back from that. Not to mention the mill of rumors floating around.” 

Nicolò raised an eyebrow. “There have been rumors?” he said. “What could there possibly be rumors about?” 

Benjamin shook his head. “I would rather not go into the disgusting details,” he huffed. “Some people seem to have nothing better to do with their lives than spread falsehoods about others. About perfectly good, wonderful people doing wonderful things for society.” 

“Truly a plague upon modern society,” Nicolò agreed and he made a mental note to look up these said rumors later. 

“Disgusting,” Benjamin chided, half to himself, “absolutely disgusting the way people conduct themselves these days.” He lifted the glass to his lips and downed it all in several seconds. The elder Merrick winced and coughed. “Where did you get this?” Benjamin questioned. “It’s flat.” 

Nicolò shrugged. “Apologies. I found it in the wine cellar this morning,” he explained, the lie coming easily.

“Our wine cellar?” Benjamin asked. When Nicolò nodded, he rolled his eyes. “Well, that explains it.” He coughed again. “I’ll tell you, the people here don’t know one thing about quality. They don’t bloody well  _ check on things;  _ make sure they haven’t gone bad. It’s criminal.”

“Apparently,” said Nicolò. 

Benjamin Merrick coughed once more. “Excuse me,” he murmured. 

“Of course,” said Nicolò, and Benjamin flattened his palm against the desk. His chest heaved. Nicolò grabbed his arm with one hand and carefully caught the glass with the other. “Are you alright?” he mused. 

“I’m suddenly feeling very…” Benjamin trailed off, erupting into another fit of coughs. 

“ Indisposé?”  Nicolò offered. “Come.” He led Benjamin to the couch at the back of the study. “Lie down. ” 

Benjamin covered his mouth and after several more seconds of hacking and sputtering, he pulled his palm away to find it stained with crimson red. He looked up, eyes wide, blood vessels popping. “What... ?” 

“ Sei troppo vecchio per bere da estranei,”  Nicolò observed with a deep-set frown.  _ But lucky day for me that you still do,  _ he thought gleefully. Benjamin reached for Nicolò’s shirt, gripping tightly at his collar, but his hold was weak, and the assassin watched passively as the brightness faded from his eyes. Nicolò waited a minute, and then another before he pressed his fingertips to Benjamin’s pulse. 

“Monsieur Merrick,  il y a une lettre de ta femme -” came Marcia’s voice. Her own words were cut off by an ear-piercing scream. 

_ Fuck,  _ thought  Nicolò. 

* * *

**YUSUF**

It was a Tuesday, and when Joe returned home from work that day, the door was open, just a crack, and a soft sound rose from behind the door to the apartment. Someone was inside and they were singing in a voice that seemed to be both silky smooth and rough as gravel at the same time. Joe drew his gun and carefully pushed at the door, nudging it with the tip of his boot. It swung quietly open with a small, barely permissible squeak. 

_ “ _ _ Oh piccola, ho visto un sacco di cose in questo vecchio mondo.” _

Joe stiffened; he recognized that voice. He would recognize it anywhere. He would know it in his sleep. He would hear it across miles. 

_ “Quando li tocco, non significano nulla, ragazza.” _

Joe turned the corner. The other man had his back to him. He was hunched over the stovetop, wooden spoon in hand, turning it through a large black pot. “ _ Oooh, piccola, eccomi qui; firmato, sigillato, consegnato, sono tuo, sono tuo…”  _

Moving closer still, Joe approached him until the muzzle of his gun was a mere inch from the man’s head. “How the hell did you get into my apartment?” Joe asked stiffly. 

Paolo  chuckled softly. “Anch'io sono felice di vederti, Yusuf,” he said. “Relax. I am making dinner.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes bright and vivid and glimmering with an air of levity “I hope you like spaghetti.”

“I asked you a question,” Joe said, his grip on the gun tightening, finger pressing lightly against the trigger, the metal cool against his skin. 

Paolo turned around now, leaning his back against the stove, Joe’s Moroccan flag apron wrapped around his waist, brushing his palms together, like he was ridding them of dirt. “Why don’t you take a seat, amore?” he mused. “It’ll be ready soon, and then we can talk. This is a nice place you have here?”  Paolo commented. “You can afford this on your…what is it? Your stipendio?”

Joe inhaled sharply; tried to find a normal breathing pattern.  _ Why are you so damn nervous?  _ “My boss takes care of us,” Joe stated. 

Paolo’s gaze moved up and down.  “Why don’t you put that thing away, Yusuf. You could seriously hurt someone.” 

“That’s sort of the idea,” Joe stated flatly. 

“I suppose so,” said  Paolo. “Alright then. You can hold on to it if you’d like. If it would make you feel more comfortable, but please, sit. I know you must be tired. It has been a long week.” 

Joe snorted. “Understatement of the goddamn century,” he murmured, and yet, against every whim and will and instinct that had been ingrained in his head for years, Joe lowered the gun and pulled out one of the stools at the kitchen island. “What are you doing here?” Joe asked, fingers still curled around the handle of his weapon. 

“I wish to know you better,” Paolo answered. 

“ _ You  _ wish to know  _ me  _ better,” Joe repeated, gaping at the other man in front of him. “I don’t even know your real name.” Paolo raised an eyebrow. “I know  _ Paolo  _ isn’t your real name.” 

Paolo snorted softly. “Intelligente,” he commented and he seemed to pause, considering it for a moment or two. “Perhaps I will tell you later. If you behave.” 

“How kind of you,” Joe murmured.

Paolo gestured behind him with a small quirk of the thumb. “I am assuming now I can turn around and finish our meal and you will not shoot me in the back, si?” 

“I won’t promise that,” Joe said. 

Paolo smiled, though it didn’t quite reach the eyes. “ Non mi aspetterei di meno,” he conceded and he shrugged, turning back around. “You know, I was very disappointed that our last conversation ended so quickly. I was enjoying myself.” 

“I’m sure you were,” Joe muttered, feeling suddenly very stupid. 

There was a temporary, stiff silence that fell between the two men. Joe listened as  Paolo continued to sing quietly under his breath. Two minutes and then five minutes passed when Paolo turned back around. 

“Yusuf, where are your plates and serving utensils?” Paolo asked. 

“Umm…” Joe murmured, scratching the back of his head, “Middle cabinet, just above your head. Drawer beneath the stove.” 

Paolo moved about the kitchen. He pulled a pair of bright blue plastic plates from the cabinet and cast Joe a dubious look over his shoulder to which Joe responded with a shrug. Paolo snorted and deftly scooped several spoonfuls of spaghetti and sauce onto each plate. He placed Joe’s serving in front of him first before walking around and lifting himself onto his own stool. Joe sat staring at the food for several long moments. 

“Why don’t you try it?” Paolo asked. 

“How can I be sure you didn’t put anything in it?” Joe mused. 

Paolo nodded. “Fair enough.” He picked up his fork and shoved a large bite of food into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “See? It is ok for me. It is okay for you, right?” 

“I suppose so,” said Joe and he took his fork in his hand, spiraling the spaghetti onto the utensil and lifting it to his mouth. Joe hesitated a second or so longer before eating. He pushed the food around with his tongue before working up the courage to swallow. Paolo stared at him expectantly. 

“Well?” Paolo said. 

“It’s…” Joe sighed. “It’s pretty good.”  
Paolo grinned. “Sapevo che ti sarebbe piaciuto.”

“Okay. I’ve tried it. Now tell me. Why are you here?” 

“A gun, a beautiful man, and my grandmother’s spaghetti recipe,” said  Paolo idly, “I would not want to be anywhere else.” 

Joe narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be a dick,” he said flatly. “ _ Why are you here?”  _

“ Non è ovvio?”  Paolo said. “I wanted to have dinner with you. Does there need to be a reason more?” Joe opened his mouth, realized further questioning would get him nowhere, and he closed it again. “You will not eat more? You are not hungry?” Paolo asked, gesturing at Joe’s plate with his fork. 

“Not particularly,” said Joe. 

Paolo shrugged. ““I would keep eating. If I were you. It is considered very offensive, in most cultures, to turn down the goodwill of others.” 

“Is that what we’re calling this?” Joe said. “Your goodwill?” 

Paolo quirked his head to the side.“I can sense hostility in you, Yusuf,” said Paolo. “Perhaps you should try some breathing exercises.” 

“Breathing exercises?” mused Joe. 

“In through the nose. Count to ten,” Paolo exclaimed, “And then out through the mouth. Very simple. Very helpful.” 

Joe barked out a short, harsh bite of laughter. “Oh, and you would know about this?” he said. 

“I would,” said Paolo, “You would not imagine how much stress I am under.” 

“Yes,” Joe said. “I’m sure killing people really takes it out of you.” 

Paolo smiled with only half of his lips. “I’m so glad you understand,” he hummed, and Joe wasn’t entirely sure whether the man was joking or not. “I could help you, you know.” 

“Help me with what exactly?” Joe questioned, one eyebrow raised. 

“Relax,” Paolo said, “You always seem so…” he paused.  “ Irrequieto.”

Joe huffed and shook his head. “You have no idea.” 

“About what, Yusuf?”  Paolo mused, head tilted to the side ever so slightly, his gaze flickering. “Your restlessness, or you.” 

Joe pretended to take a moment to think it over. “Both,” he said eventually. 

The other man licked his bottom lip and Joe felt his stomach turn over despite itself. Paolo leaned forward and said with his voice low, “I’ve met men like you before. Plenty of times and I know the type. I know the  _ exact  _ type.” 

Joe stiffened. There was part of him that wanted to reclaim his weapon, point it straight at this dangerous man’s heart, holding him under threat until he had the chance to call Andy. It was what he should have done and perhaps he should have done that the moment he first saw Paolo standing in his kitchen. But then there was another, smaller, yet significantly louder part of him that wanted Paolo to keep talking and talking and talking, he wanted to keep hearing that smooth, beautiful voice. He wanted to keep listening, holding onto each word as if every syllable was a lifeline. So despite his every best interest, Joe asked, “What type would that be?” 

Paolo shrugged. He coiled a long strand of spaghetti around his fork and opened his mouth, taking the food past his lips in a slow, over-exaggerated motion and Joe rolled his eyes. Paolo took several moments longer than necessary to chew and swallow before he leaned back in the chair and said offhandedly, “Bored.” 

“Bored?” echoed Joe.

“Si,” Paolo said. “Bored. Very bored. Constantly bored. You’re the kind of bored that is all-consuming. It occupies each and every space of your mind until all you can think about is how bored you are. The boredom you experience is more than just the boredom one feels on a rainy day and there’s nothing to do, no, the boredom that haunts your soul is more. Much, much more. It keeps you awake at night. It occupies your every thought and you have no idea what to do with all of that boredom, so you just let it fester deep inside your chest. And it scares you, that boredom. Because you don’t know what will happen on the day it finally gets to be too much. When the pot finally boils over. It doesn’t make sense. That is what you tell yourself. You have a good job; an important job. You think, most people would give a lot for this job, but it isn’t enough and some part of you feels as if it has never been enough.”

Joe’s face was burning. His hand was shaking, and his teeth ached from pressing them together so hard. “You got that?” Joe mused. “From one five-minute conversation.” 

“You are not very subtle,” Paolo said. 

“Well you sound very sure of yourself.” 

Paolo nodded. “Because I am,” he said, “And I know it. I have always known it.” 

“What do you mean?” Joe asked. 

Paolo reached out his hand, wrapping it around the one of Joe’s that wasn’t clutching the gun and Joe knew he should have had half a mind to pull away, but he didn’t. The thought, in fact, never crossed his mind. Not even for a moment. Paolo’s touch was warm. Incredibly warm.

“I often find myself feeling bored as well,” Paolo said. 

“Is that so?” said Joe. 

“I would venture to say it’s quite often actually,” Paolo added somberly. 

Joe stared at him, into those oceanic eyes, and he said, “You’re so full of shit.” 

There was, just then, two quick knocks on the door. Joe made a small move to stand and seconds later, the gun had been pulled from his grip and was now aimed squarely at his chest. 

“ Non fare niente di stupido, Yusuf,”  Paolo instructed sharply. “I will shoot you in the chest and you will bleed out slowly. It will not be pleasant. Don’t make me do it.” 

Joe’s shoulder stiffened. “I need to answer the door,” he said. There were three more knocks. Then: 

“Joe, are you home?” 

It was Nile.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck, SHIT,  _ Joe thought. “She won’t go away,” Joe said. “Let me open the door.” 

“It is not so much fun when the…” Paolo trailed off, frowning. “What is the phrase in English?” 

Joe furrowed his eyebrows. “What phrase?” he said. 

“Oh, you know,” Paolo exclaimed. 

“No, not really.” 

Paolo sighed heavily. He adjusted his one-handed hold on the gun and shifted from side to side impatiently. “ _ You know!”  _ Paolo groaned. 

Several more knocks. “Joe, I know you’re in there, I can see the lights on!” Nile’s voice came again, slightly muffled through the closed front door. 

“I should really answer that,” Joe said. “She’s got a key of her own and if I don’t get the door soon, she’s going to use it.” 

Paolo wrinkled his nose. “Why does your co-worker have a key to your apartment?” he questioned. 

“Something happened a few years ago with a particularly clingy client. Long story. Wasn’t pretty. Anyways. Now my boss makes us all carry keys to each other’s apartments.” Joe shook his head. “Just put the gun down, please.” 

Paolo’s eyes widened and he snapped his fingers. “Turntables! Ha. This is not so much fun when the turntables, is it, Yusuf?” 

“You’re unbelievable,” said Joe.

“Thank you.”

Joe sucked in a breath. “Oh, trust me, that wasn’t a compliment.” The door clicked open. Joe cursed under his breath. He took a slow, cautious step around the table, one hand extended outward. “Be reasonable,” Joe hissed, “You can’t kill both of us and get away with it. You know you can’t. You’re good… but you’re not  _ that  _ good.” 

Paolo’s lips curled back, teeth flashing, and yet, several short beats later, Nile was walking into the kitchen and Paolo had tucked the gun in the back of his pants. 

“Oh,” said Nile. “I didn’t realize you had a…” she trailed off, eyes going comedically wide. 

“Guest?” finished Paolo. He waved his hand dismissively. “Do not worry. I was just on my way out.” 

“You’re…” said Nile, fists clenching and unclenching. 

“Just on his way out,” Joe echoed, lunging for his friend, grabbing her by the arm, and pulling her back, just an edge of desperation to his movements. 

Nile looked up at him. “What are you doing?” she said.

“Leave it,” Joe responded, eyes wide and pleading. “Please.” And something in his eyes was just scared enough for Nile to give him a small nod of the head. 

Paolo’s gaze moved over the two of them and he seemed to soften in increments. “Molto dolce.” He pushed his bottom lip out in an over-dramatized pout. “Molto, molto dolce.” Paolo cleared his throat and he pressed the side of his hand to his forehead, saluting. “Yusuf. Yusuf’s friend. Have a wonderful night.” 

Joe and Nile watched as the assassin strolled past them, a slight bounce in his step, and out the front door. He even pulled it gently closed behind him. Nile yanked her arm out of Joe’s hand and turned, glaring at him.

“What the fuck was that about, Joe?” she demanded. “That was him. That was our guy.” 

“I know, I know,” Joe sighed. 

Nile crossed her arms over her chest. “And what? You just opened your door for him and had a nice little meal?” 

“ _ No,”  _ said Joe. “I just came home and he was here.” 

“What do you mean ‘he was here’?” Nile demanded. 

“I mean, the door was unlocked and he was making me dinner.” 

“Yes, I can see that,” Nile said, “It looks as if you’ve eaten some of it too.” 

Joe winced. “Not a whole lot,” he said. “Only a few bites.” 

“A few bites too many, Joe!” Nile exclaimed, practically shouting. “What if he had put something in it?” 

“He ate some himself, I doubt there was anything in it.” 

_ “Joe.”  _ Nile rubbed her hands over her face. “Why didn’t you call someone, Joe? Why didn’t you  _ do something?”  _

Joe’s face felt hot and a prickle of sweat slid down the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. 

“What?” 

“ _ I said I don’t know _ ,” Joe said, a fraction too loud. He collapsed back into his chair around the dining room table and he ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t fucking know, Nile…” 

Nile pulled out the chair that Nicolò had previously occupied and she sat down. “Are you okay?” she asked. 

“Not really,” said Joe. He snorted. “How about that? The day I decide to come back home, there’s a psychopath in my kitchen.” 

“The universe has always had impeccable timing,” Nile stated. “You can come to my house again if you want. I think you left some of your shit there anyways.” 

Joe shook his head and he sighed, “I won’t ask that of you.” He paused. “The assassin took my gun.” 

Nile squinted at him. “He  _ what?”  _ she said. 

“He took my gun. My pistol,” Joe elaborated. 

“ _ What?”  _

Joe grimaced mournfully. “I loved that thing…” 

“Not the important part of this, Joe,” Nile pressed, reaching over and punching him lightly in the shoulder. “How did that even happen?” 

Joe drummed his fingers against the top of the table. “It may or may not have been your fault…” he said. 

Nile punched him again, harder this time, with intent. “Ow, what the fuck!” Joe shouted in the same instance that Nile said, “Please don’t put the blame on me. What did you do?” 

“I…” Joe inhaled sharply. “I got flustered.”

“You got  _ flustered?”  _

“Can you stop doing that?”

Nile blinked. “Doing what?”

“Emphasizing words,” said Joe. “Like you can’t believe it. Like you’re disappointed in me.” 

“I’m not disappointed,” Nile sighed. “I’m just…I don’t get it, Joe, this isn’t you. You don’t freeze up like that. You don’t just make careless mistakes out of nowhere.” 

Joe dropped his forehead onto the surface of the dining room table and he groaned. At the back of his head, he could hear Nicolò telling him he was  _ bored _ . How much it struck him, straight through the heart; made his mind still. Perhaps he was right. But Nile was right too. This was unlike him. It wasn’t in the Yusuf al-Kaysani playbook to be easily distracted. 

“No,” said Nile.

Joe lifted his head and frowned. “‘No’ what?”

“Please do not tell me that this is some sort of weird fatal attraction thing,” Nile said. 

“Fuck, no,” Joe answered quickly. “Never. No. Never. What? Never.” 

Nile noted, “That’s a lot of denials.”

“That’s offensive,” Joe countered. “My standards are a little higher than that.”

“Are they?” mused Nile. “Because do you know how it looks, Joe? It looks like you have the hots for a psychopath. A real, actual psychopath.”

“Come on, have a bit of faith in me,” said Joe. “I mean, I barely know the guy.”

Nile raised an eyebrow. “So… you’re saying if you did know him…?” 

“I wouldn’t,” Joe pressed, “I won’t.” He closed his fingers, extending only the pinkie. “I promise.” 

Nile rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dork,” she said as she locked her pinkie with his. After Nile released him, she pointed at his face. “Get this under control.” 

“I will,” Joe said. 

“Go get drunk and fuck a stranger if that’ll get this bizarre infatuation out of your system,” Nile snorted. 

“I’m not infatuated with him,” Joe argued. 

“Sure,” said Nile, “Keep telling yourself that, Yusuf, but I’ve known you for almost two years now. I can tell when you’ve got a crush.” 

Joe cleared his throat. “Why are you here, again?”

“I was coming down here to tell you myself,” said Nile, “Your boyfriend landed another mark.” 

“Who?” Joe questioned. “How do you know?”

“Benjamin Merrick,” Nile replied. She paused. “And the entire staff working at his French manor. I know, because someone, one person, survived and was able to describe the killer, and it kind of sounds just like the guy whom you just let stroll out of this apartment.” 

“What happened?” Joe asked. 

Nile shook her head. There was a strange, distant sort of glint in her eyes. “I looked at some of the crime scene photos. Andy emailed them to me about an hour ago… ” she trailed off, shoulders stiffening. “It wasn’t pretty, Joe. This isn’t someone who you can fuck around with.” 

Joe felt his throat tighten. “Show me,” he said. 

“Show you?” Nile echoed. 

“I want to see the crime scene photos,” Joe pressed. 

Nile wrinkled her nose. “Oh god, why?” 

“ _ Nile,”  _ Joe said, “Just show me. Please.” 

“Alright…” said Nile, “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She motioned for Joe to follow her into the living room and they both sat on the couch together. Nile scrolled through her phone before reaching the email. She opened it and passed it to her colleague. 

Joe took the phone, slowly scrolling through the images. His heart hammered in his chest. The images were visceral. One picture, of a man with his neck, opened up in a thick gash, rivulets of blood running down his throat and staining the front of his shirt. There was another, of an older gentleman with the top of his skull concave, slumped against a mahogany coffee table, the corner of which was stained with the gentleman’s blood. Several of the cooks with multiple different sorts of lacerations scattered about the kitchen. Open stomachs, knives to the skull, exposed bone. And another image yet, of a young woman, with dark purple fingerprint bruises around her neck, eyes open; frozen in an eternity of fear. Her name tag read: Marcia Lavigne. 

Joe took a deep breath and let it out. He closed his eyes. “H-how…” Joe stammered, “How do you know it was him?”

“Joe,” said Nile and he opened his eyes again; turned to look at her. “We’ve got an interview with the survivor tomorrow afternoon. She’s been brought into protective custody. Why don’t you come and hear her out?” 

Joe swallowed and it was as if there was an ever-tightening knot in his throat. “Okay,” he said, “Okay.” And he thought with increasing dread and thrumming heart,  _ what the fuck have I gotten myself into? _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> great big thanks for my valiant beta, victimhood / anonymouspony, your help is invaluable. 
> 
> come and say hello to me over on tumblr at nicoloalkaysani!
> 
> comments not necessary, but much appreciated.


	3. desperate measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe and Nile prepare to interview their star witness, the only survivor of the Merrick Manor killings, but both Nile and Joe are becoming doubtful of their own abilities. Meanwhile, Nicolo hurries to tie up loose ends before he faces unknown consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Apologies for the delays but chapter three is finally here. I hope you all enjoy it. This wild ride is still well in the starting point, there is so much more to come!

**YUSUF**

Not even an hour had passed since Nile left when Joe realized that something was wrong. He couldn’t quite place what it was, but it prickled along the back of his neck and sent a wave of chills down his spine. Instead of sleeping, he spent another few hours thoroughly dissecting his apartment, trying to find anything that could be out of place. He checked the windows. They were all closed. Just the way he had left them before he’d gone to stay with Nile. The only things missing from the cupboards and the fridge were Paolo’s ingredients for dinner, and that wasn’t too much. 

The dirty dishes now rested mockingly in the sink, untouched. Waiting. Was there a pillow out of place on the couch? Was one of the picture frames on the walls crooked? Joe approached each closely, observing them for any possible minute change. He walked into his bedroom, and his bed was unmade, as he had left it before. Was there more or less dirty clothing on the floor than before? It was impossible to tell. He went to the bathroom. His faucet was dripping steady pellets of water into the basin, but that wasn’t anything new. Joe stood in the apartment’s center, arms crossed; a frown fixed deeply on his face. His gaze moved across the kitchen to where he’d left his laptop, face open, muck covered screen visible for the world to see. 

Only, he hadn’t left his laptop on the kitchen table. He had left it in his office, behind a locked door, and tucked away in a drawer. Joe paused, heart thumping. So what, then, was it doing on the kitchen table? He went to the device, picked it up, turned it over in his hands, opened it, and quickly skimmed through files. Nothing seemed to be out of place, but clearly, something had happened, and not knowing made it all the worse. Before Joe could investigate any further, his cell phone rang. Upon lifting the device, he saw Andy’s caller ID displayed on the screen and took a quick moment to brace himself before answering.

“Were you going to tell me what happened?” she asked evenly. 

“I was getting around to it,” said Joe. “In my defense, it just happened.” 

There was a pause, and after several beats of uncomfortable silence, Andy asked, “Are you okay? Do you feel safe?” 

“I’m fine. But I think he might have taken something.” 

On the other line, Andy sighed. “What do you think he took?” she questioned. 

“I have no idea,” said Joe. 

“That’s very helpful, Yusuf,” Andy deadpanned. 

“But I found my laptop out on the dining room table, and I always lock it up in my office before I leave the apartment,” Joe explained. “I think he might have looked through it.” 

“If it’s password-protected, then you shouldn't have anything to worry about,” Andy said. Another pause, and Joe thought his soul was physically going to crawl out of his body. “You did password protect your computer, didn’t you?” 

“Of course, I did!” Joe exclaimed. “Andromache, what kind of person do you take me for?” 

He could practically see her rolling her eyes. “Okay,” said Andy, “What was your password?” 

Joe stiffened. “You know, Andy, I-” 

“Don’t tell me that you don’t remember. Joe,” Andy said, “What was your password?” 

Joe breathed in and then out again. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “One…” Joe said. “Two…”

“Yusuf.”

“Three…” 

“For fuck’s sake.” 

“Four.” He didn’t have to see her, to know she was fuming. “It was easy to remember!” Joe said helplessly. 

“Easy to guess, too,” Andy pointed out. “If I had to venture, he probably used a flash drive and gathered as much information as he could about what we do and who we investigate. He may be planning on using our target list for whoever he’s working for.”

“So what do we do?” Joe asked.

“We find the bastard before he can make good use of it,” Andy said. 

Joe frowned. “How do we do that? We don’t even know his real name?” 

“I’m going to have Book do some research, but in the meantime, you and the kid make as much use of that witness as you can,” Andy instructed. 

Joe’s frown deepened. “Wait. What? You’re putting Book on this?” 

“I thought it was time,” said Andy. “I don’t want to hear you complaining about it. This is my choice, Joe. Not yours. Booker is an asset to the team. You know he is.” 

“Fine,” said Joe. 

“And I think you should talk to him. You’re going to be working with him a lot over the next month or so, and you won’t get much done if you’re arguing with him constantly..”  
“Nile said the same thing.”

“It’s because she’s smart.” Andy paused. “I’m arranging a day off for you and a day off for him, and it will conveniently be on the same day next week. Do with that what you will.” 

Joe closed his eyes, tilting his face up the ceiling. “I’ll think about it,” he said. 

“Don’t think too long,” Andy warned. “I want to find out who this guy is before the end of the month, and Booker is a major key to getting us there. We can’t do this without him.” Joe snorted. “You know I’m right. There’s not a better hacker in all of Europe.” 

“I do know you’re right,” said Joe, “But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.” 

* * *

**NICOLO**

For reasons he could not completely explain, Nicolò despised the Americas. North America, to be precise, and every time he was forced to travel there for an assignment. So when Copley, unprompted, asked that he meet him in a discreet town in the middle of Minnesota, the assassin was tempted to fake an illness and avoid the exchange altogether. But on the other end of Nicolò’s third burner phone of the month, Copley had seemed more perturbed than usual, so Nicolò decided it may be for the best to make a brief appearance. It was the least he could do, though the moment he checked the plane ticket that Copley had emailed him and found that it was economy class, he began to regret his commitment to the trip. He’d been seated in front of a particularly precocious five-year-old who seemed to have a rotating schedule of kicking the back of Nicolò’s seat, screaming at his mother, and snoring excessively. On top of it all, Nicolò had a persistent, powerful headache pressing at the back of his skull that wouldn’t seem to go away. 

He pulled out his newest identification card and turned it over in his hand. Martin Eden, the small black type read.  _ Well, at least it isn’t as bad as Mickey Miranda,  _ thought Nicolò with a sigh. His identification had labeled him as a thirty-year-old from California. Christ, that meant he would have to do an American accent. His American accent was terrible. Why couldn’t Quynh have kept his nationality Italian? There were plenty of Europeans who made voyages out to the States. The next time he saw her, Nicolò would have a very serious conversation with his colleague about the proper way to create a secret identity. 

Miraculously, Nicolò managed to get a few hours of rest and was awake by the plane’s landing. He’d cast a tight smile over his shoulder at the mother and child as he retrieved his bag from the overhead compartment before he bent slightly at the knees so he could look the boy in the eyes. “Hello, young man,” Nicolò said, inwardly cringing at the sound of his own voice. The sharp, lilting edge of the American dialect. He tried not to shudder. “How was your flight?” 

The boy made a face. “Momma says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” 

“Did momma also tell you it’s rude to kick people’s seats?” Nicolò said. The boy stuck out his tongue, and Nicolò smiled tightly in response. He glanced back at the boy and his mother as he departed the plane. Nicolò turned the gate’s corner and kept on until he had reached the airport’s food court. There weren’t many appealing options, but Nicolò hadn’t eaten anything since last night, and even the overly processed burgers were looking appetizing. He ordered a cheeseburger and took a seat in one of the plastic chairs. It tasted like shit. Between bites of food, Nicolò reached his feet and lifted a small blue backpack with characters from Paw Patrol decorated on the front flap, and placed it on top of the table. He unzipped the backpack and rifled through it. There wasn’t much. Just a few board books, a small plastic bottle of orange juice, and a raggedy teddy bear. Nicolò finished the rest of the burger and hoisted his own bag over his shoulder, standing and walking to the trash can, taking the blue backpack and its contents with him. Without a second thought, Nicolò dropped everything in the garbage. 

According to Copley, he was to meet him at a restaurant about twenty minutes out from the airport. Knowing the other man, Nicolò was sure he would already be there. Copley was very particular about making a point of being the first to show up like some strange power move. Nicolò was able to wave down a taxi easily. He tossed his duffle into the backseat first before climbing in after it. 

“Where to?” the taxi driver asked. 

“The Meritage,” Nicolò said. “I am supposed to be meeting an old friend.” 

The driver nodded. “Sure thing.” He pulled out of the airport terminal. 

Nicolò leaned his head against the window, humming to himself, along with the soft music that was drifting up from the radio. With his line of work, Nicolò traveled often and all across the world. It was thrilling. It was like a dream. He’d done a great many things and usually spent an extra few days in the location after completing a job exploring and playing the tourist. Nicolò enjoyed the simple pleasure of sight-seeing and taking photos. When he went strolling down some foreign country streets, he felt normal; he felt like an average person. No one looked at him strangely. No one suspected Nicolò was any different from the rest of them, which Nicolò found hilarious. His explorations occurred relatively soon after the job had been completed. He could have been mere hours away from breaking some powerful executive’s neck, and the strangers passing him by would be none the wiser.  _ Oh, if only they knew,  _ Nicolò found himself thinking, a small and private smile on his face. 

In Nicolò’s South Ireland apartment, he kept a small box filled with polaroids documenting his worldly travels. He kept some of the photographs with him no matter where he went, like little good luck charms. A capture of the Pont des Arts in Paris from before the French government had banned any further additions to the collection of locks. Another image, of a small wooden houseboat on the Mekong River Delta’s edge in Vietnam, a mother and her young child holding hands on the dock, the child’s head turned towards Nicolò. An artistic shot of the thriller section in New York’s Strand Bookstore, the dark cover of Ian Reid’s  _ I’m Thinking of Ending Things  _ at the forefront of one of the tall stacks of books. 

When Nicolò arrived at the restaurant, Copley was waiting for him. 

“Have you ordered yet?” Nicolò asked as he pulled out the chair across from Copley, picking up his menu and scanning quickly over the options. Several minutes passed without a response, and Nicolò flickered his gaze up to the other man. Copley’s expression was carefully and quite purposefully neutral. “Are you alright?” mused Nicolò. 

“You tell me, Nicolò,” Copley said.

Nicolò blinked. “You do not look well.”

“Oh, and why do you think that might be?” Copley questioned with faux offhandedness. 

“Non ne sono sicuro,” said Nicolò with a shrug. 

Copley sighed heavily. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. Before he spoke again, the waitress stepped into the room and took Nicolò’s order. There was a thick, uneasy tension that fell over the room, and the young waitress seemed to observe this, exiting just as quickly as she had arrived. 

“If I am to be completely honest with you, this has not been the best week for me,” Copley said. “Lots of paperwork.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nicolò responded. 

Copley took a long sip of water. “And you? How was your week, Nicolò?” he asked, voice even. 

Nicolò gave a one shouldered shrug. “ Non sono né buono né cattivo.”

“Is that so?” Copley said, eyebrows raised. 

“Si,” said  Nicolò. He paused. “Although. The other day, I did consume a particularly foul-tasting turkey sandwich from a local deli, and my stomach was quite upset afterward. I think the produce was expired. What sort of psychopath sells people sandwiches with expired turkey?” 

Copley fixed the other man with a careful, steely glare. “How unfortunate,” he said. 

“Very much so,” Nicolò agreed, “It was disappointing. I was hungry. Very hungry. It’d been nearly a day since I’d last eaten.” He tilted his head to the side. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“I’ve no idea what you could be talking about,” sighed Copley. 

“Yes, you do,” Nicolò argued. “I have known you long enough to tell when you are upset with me.” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “So, go on. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

“You really don’t know?” Copley asked. ,

“No. I don’t, and I’m not particularly in the mood to play a guessing game.”

Copley sighed again. He straightened his shoulders, and he glanced around for several moments before leaning slightly across the table.“Your last mission? You were meant to kill Benjamin Merrick,  _ just  _ Benjamin Merrick,” Copley said under his breath, voice harsh and low. “What happened at that manor was a  _ massacre _ . It was messy. It was unnecessary.” 

Nicolò clenched his jaw, and his fingers curled into fists where they rested on top of his thighs. “The plan didn’t go the way it was meant to; I was there longer than I was supposed to be,” he said, “There were witnesses. There couldn’t be any witnesses.” 

Copley laughed, and it was stiff; humorless, and his eyes were dark and blazing and wary all at once. He opened his mouth and closed it again, repeating the motion a few times over, as if he was trying to work through the correct words to say, and there was an edge of caution painted across his face. 

“I understand what you were attempting to do,” Copley said, words slow and deliberate, “But we could have paid them off. We could have given them anything. This was not the right way to deal with it. You can see this, can’t you?” When Nicolò hesitated, Copley pressed, “They’re unhappy with me, and they’re unhappy with you.” 

“I did what they told me to-,” Nicolò began. 

“For god sake, Nicolò...” Copley groaned, “This is serious.” He inhaled sharply and glanced around the room again, and he waited, seemingly until he was sure no one would be walking in, before stating, “You left someone alive.” 

Nicolò quirked his head to the side. “No,” he said. Copley nodded. “No, that’s impossible.” 

“I think you know precisely what and who I am talking about,” Coplay said evenly. “You have a good heart.” Nicolò snorted. “You do. And hypothetically, there is nothing wrong with that, but in this situation, it is going to get you into a lot of trouble if you don’t deal with it as soon as possible.” The handler reached inside his suit jacket and withdrew a thin white envelope, sliding it across the table. “They’re keeping her in Annecy. Try to get there before the police do.” He paused. “Before your friend does.” 

“Yusuf will be there?” mused Nicolò, back straightening against his chair. 

“Don’t get distracted,” Copley warned. 

“I never get distracted,” Nicolò said. “What is it that he does exactly?” 

“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet. Did you not retrieve the information you needed the other night?” Copley said. 

Nicolò shrugged again. “I got what I wanted,” he said. “But I already passed it off to you, and I assume you have already passed it off to...” Nicolò flicked his hand, “Whoever it is you answer to.” 

“You didn’t take a look for yourself?” Copley asked, just barely concealing his amusement and surprise, and when Nicolò shook his head, the other man laughed. “Well, now I truly am concerned something is wrong. How, unlike you.” He cleared his throat. “Alright, then. They’re a fraction of the CIA that call themselves the Old Guard.” 

“Black Ops?” Nicolò asked. 

“Technically, yes,” said Copley, then added under his breath, “Though they’re closer to armed civilians if you ask me…” He coughed once. “Essentially, they take care of the problems that neither the police nor the CIA themselves wants to deal with.” 

Nicolò snorted. “How very flattering…” he murmured. 

“You should be thankful. This means you’re off government radar. That’s a good thing.” 

“Perhaps…” Nicolò sighed. 

“You would prefer notoriety?” Copley questioned. 

Nicolò shrugged. “Only if for a little while,” he said, “Just to know how it might feel.” 

“What,” said Copley, “Like Bundy?” 

Nicolò hummed subconsciously and shook his head. “Like the Ripper.” 

“I don’t follow,” Copley said, “No one knows Jack the Ripper’s identity.” 

“And yet, everyone knows who he is,” Nicolò pressed. “Capire?” 

Copley smiled with only half his mouth. “Capire,” he echoed. 

“Fantastico,” Nicolò said, lifting his water glass and tilting it towards the other man as if making a toast. 

Copley hesitated, and it was only after their food had been delivered, and they had sat in a stilted silence for at least five minutes more before he asked, “Can you manage it?” 

Nicolò frowned. “Manage what?” he said. 

“Annecy.” 

“ Certo che posso farlo,” huffed  Nicolò, as if the mere question had offended him, but Copley couldn’t see; his heart had started beating just a little bit faster. His face had become just a fraction hotter. 

Copley’s face softened, and Nicolò loathed the empathy that seemed to overcome the other man. “She will spend her whole life alone,” Copley said, “She will be filled with a trauma that she will never completely overcome. She will suffer. Immensely. She will suffer in a way that most people can never comprehend. Do you understand what I am saying to you?” Nicolò nodded. “If you had experienced what she had… would you want to go on?” 

“No,” said Nicolò after a beat. 

“Then bear that in mind,” Copley said, “When you go. If it’ll help to make this easier.” 

Nicolò blinked slowly. “Grazie, James,” he said. 

“Hey,” Copley said, voice soft.  “ Vedrai di nuovo l'Italia. Lo prometto. Okay?”

“Grazie, James…”  Nicolò repeated, biting down so hard on the inside of his cheek that he tasted blood. 

* * *

**YUSUF**

Their flight to Annecy, France would land at exactly 11:00 in the morning; Nile had slept on Joe’s shoulder for an entire third of the flight, while Joe could scarcely pass a ten-minute nap. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those dreadful images. All the blood and pain and misery. The suffering. It made his heart race and the hairs on his arms prickle. He’d felt strange during their trip, and he wasn’t quite sure where to place his emotions. There was part of him that was dreading this, dreading having their suspicions confirmed, but there was another, perhaps louder part of him that was excited. Eager. This was new. It was thrilling. But of course, Joe knew better than to express this. 

“What do we know about the witness?” Joe asked. Nile shifted uncomfortably. She was quiet. “What is it?” he mused. “Nile?” 

“There’s something that I didn’t tell you,” said Nile quietly, and she crossed her arms over her chest and let out a heavy breath. 

Joe blinked. “What didn’t you tell me?” 

“The witness…” Nile said. “She’s seven years old.” 

Joe blinked again. “What?” 

“She’s seven years old.” 

“No, I heard you,” Joe murmured. He ran a hand through his hair. “Do you think we’ll be able to get much out of her?” 

“I don’t know,” Nile answered honestly. She sighed. “God, the poor girl. I can’t even imagine what she’s going through. To lose her mother in the way that she did? To see what she saw?” Nile shook her head. “It’s terrible.” 

“What’s going to happen to her?” Joe asked quietly. 

“She didn’t have much family. At least, not enough family that cared.” Nile sighed heavily. “From what I learned about her, the family wasn’t very supportive when her mom was pregnant, and I don’t think the dad’s been in the picture for years. She’s essentially an orphan.” 

Joe ducked his head. Outside the window, the French landscape was coming closer to view. Tiny villages and expansive farmlands all seeming to blend into one broad palette of color. He gripped the end of the armrest beneath his fingers, knuckles turning white, the voice of the beautiful Italian assassin playing through his head like a siren song, and Joe was heading straight for the rocks. 

“Is there anything we can do?” Joe asked. 

“Maybe,” Nile sighed, “But honestly, I don’t think so. This isn’t exactly our specialty. Orphaned children.” Joe leaned his head back against the headrest, letting his eyes fall closed, and Nile touched his hand. “Are you okay?” 

“Not really,” Joe confessed. 

“Do you think you can handle this?” Nile mused. 

Joe lolled his head to the side and opened his eyes again, looking at her wistfully, and he said, “I can handle anything.” 

Nile raised an eyebrow. “Even if we reencounter our mysterious man?” she questioned. 

“What?” said Joe. “What do you mean?” 

“Come on,” Nile said flatly. “If someone was left alive, then it had to have been an accident, and chances are he’s going to try to get her before we do. If our wires somehow cross, you can’t freeze up again.” 

Joe scowled. “I didn’t freeze up.” 

“Oh, you didn’t?” Nile said, gawking. “What do you call letting our star suspect walk out his front door?” 

“He took my gun!” Joe protested. 

Nile rolled her eyes. “Don’t bullshit me, Yusuf,” she snorted. “I’ve seen you take down men and women under much worse circumstances. You didn’t want to hurt him. Did you?” When Joe didn’t answer immediately, Nile continued, “Which doesn’t make sense to me because of who he is and what he’s done… it’s unjustifiable. It’s terrible. Okay, yes, he’s a beautiful man, but how far will beauty get him when he’s a complete psychopath.” 

One beat of silence passed between the two of them, then another, and then, “There goes you and that word again. You know, I don’t know if  _ psychopath  _ is very fair.” 

Nile shot Joe an unimpressed look and punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Psychopath is a  _ perfectly _ fair description.” 

Joe glanced out the window, drumming his fingers against the armrest. Overhead, the flight attendant announced that they were preparing to land. “Okay, maybe so,” Joe said, voice low as he looked back over at Nile. “But why do you think he left the girl alive?” 

“I’m not sure,” Nile said, “I think it was an accident.” 

“What if it wasn’t though,” Joe pressed. 

Nile snorted. “It was definitely an accident.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Joe argued. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would make a mistake like that.” 

“Looks like your little Manic Pixie Dream Killer isn’t as perfect as you thought he was,” Nile teased. “Seriously, though. If you see him again, you can’t have any hesitations. We know what he’s capable of, and if we don’t stop him, he’s going to keep hurting people.” 

Joe sighed heavily because he knew, of course, he knew. He had known the moment they found Keane’s massacred corpse. He had known the moment they identified the murderous man of mystery. He had known, and for a reason, he could not entirely understand, he had not been afraid in the way he was meant to be. Joe had been intrigued. This was new. This was interesting. It was different from all the other petty criminals and amateur terrorists. Whoever this man was, he was competent and efficient. Whip sharp and charming in a way that took you entirely off guard and swept the rug out from beneath your feet, and he was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that you knew, deep inside some visceral part of your soul, that if you got too close, it would consume you completely. 

“I’ll be ready,” said Joe. “I promise. I’ll be ready.” 

* * *

**NICOLO**

It had begun to rain by the time Nicolò arrived at the hospital; just a soft dusting of water against his skin as he approached the front doors. The uniform Copley had supplied him with was a touch too big, and the sleeves pooled around his wrists, and at that point, Nicolò wondered vaguely if this was a slight punishment for his initial failings. For this particular occasion, Copley had recommended that Nicolò alter his appearance a bit more if the girl had already spoken and could paint a clear picture of her mother’s killer. Nicolò had spent a clumsy ten minutes bleaching his hair and dying it a lavender blond in the airport bathroom. The results had been less than ideal, but it worked well enough to alter his appearance. Nicolò approached the front desk, standing there for several moments while the attending nurse kept her gaze fixed on the computer in front of her. When a minute passed, and the nurse still hadn’t looked up, Nicolò cleared his throat and knocked his knuckles thrice against the desk. 

“Bonjour,” Nicolò greeted. 

The nurse startled and raised her head, blinking at him, asking him in soft, lilting French, “Can I help you?” 

“I am a transfer from Cannes to help you with one of your recent patients,” Nicolò explained. “Louisa Caron.” 

The nurse blinked again, and Nicolò thought her then to be quite like a deer in the headlights. “Can you please tell me your name?” she asked, glancing back down at her computer monitor. 

“Oui,” said Nicolò. He pushed his hair back dramatically and leaned a fraction further over the desk. “Martin Eden.” 

She wrinkled her nose and gave him an incredulous look. “You are joking,” the nurse said. 

Nicolò frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re implying.” 

The nurse frowned. “Martin Eden,” she repeated, slowly the syllables, breaking each down carefully. “The Jack London character?” 

_ Oh,  _ thought Nicolò. “One in the same,” the assassin agreed, recovering quickly. “My parents were… how you say, great fans of Mr. London’s work. I know, most people don’t believe me when I tell them.” 

The nurse narrowed her eyes. “I see…” she said. 

“I assure you you’ll find my transfer approved on your computer,” Nicolo continued. He reached out and tapped the top of the monitor.  “T raverser mon cœur.”

“D’accord,” the nurse said under her breath. Her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard. Click, click, click. Several long, soundless beats passed between them, and for several beats longer still, the nurse stared dully at the screen before she lifted her head sheepishly. “Yes, I see. Apologies,” the nurse murmured, cheeks flushing, “You can understand my suspicions, I am sure. With everything that has happened.” 

Nicolò nodded somberly. “Oui. Those poor people,” he said, touching the palm of his hand to his chest. “I truly mourn their losses and pray for their families.” 

The nurse shook her head. “Even the censored images they showed on the news were…” she shuddered. “Horrifying. I don’t think I will ever sleep soundly again.” 

“ I believe we are in the same situation,”  Nicolò said somberly. “We can only hope that they find the killer soon. France is not safe with a person such as that walking amongst us.” 

“It terrifies me to think it,” the nurse confessed. She shuddered. “I don’t understand it; I don’t understand how a human being can do such awful things to other human beings.” 

Nicolò shrugged. “It perplexes me, as well. These kinds of people will never understand. The best thing we can do, the only thing we can do is go on with our lives and continue upholding the regularity of society.” 

The nurse nodded in agreement. “I just wish I could do something about it,” she sighed. “I feel so helpless here sometimes, sitting here at my desk. I wish I were you,” the nurse added with a soft laugh, “Treating that poor little girl. Then perhaps I could feel as if I was making a real impact.” 

“If I were you, I would not be so hard on myself,” Nicolò said softly. “Things such as this, we cannot control. There is no use being upset over the things we cannot control.” 

The nurse shifted in her seat. “ I guess you are right,” she sighed. “She’ll be in room 3C. I’ll let the attending nurse and the guards on duty know you are on your way.” 

“Je vous remercie,” said  Nicolò. He paused. “I’m sorry. I never learned your name.” 

“Celeste,” the nurse said. 

“Celeste,” Nicolò echoed. “It has been very nice to meet you, Celeste. Be kind to yourself.” 

Celeste smiled. “Je vous remercie, Martin.” She brushed a fallen piece of hair back behind her ear and waved, Nicolò returning the gesture before turning and walking down the hallway. 

Nicolò thought it was stunning how few people, Celeste aside, questioned his sudden appearance in the hospital and found it even more stunning how easily one could be fooled by a silly uniform and some forged documents, almost too easy. Not that Nicolò was complaining. The sooner he could finish this job, the better. It wasn’t difficult, locating Louisa’s room after Celeste so kindly helped him. Clever girl, asking questions. Nicolò wondered what sort of game it was that Quynh was playing, choosing code names that were either too absurd or too recognizable. 

They’d gotten on well enough before, and Nicolò wasn’t aware that the other assassin might have had a problem with him. He tried to think about what their last interaction was. It took him a moment, but soon the memory came creeping back together; the last time he had seen Quynh in person was last year, the day before Christmas Eve. Nicolò was on assignment, tasked with bringing down the head of education in California’s 21st district. Everything had gone relatively smoothly, leading up to the instance Nicolò stepped across the man’s office threshold and found Quynh already there. Anger was too simple of a word to describe the look on her face when she’d seen him, but she had to know that it was a mistake. Nicolò had no real say, and besides, the target had been successfully eliminated at the end of the day, so there was no real reason for Quynh to be upset. It shouldn’t have mattered who did the killing, only that it was accomplished quickly and efficiently. 

“ Bonne après-midi,”  Nicolò said as he stepped into room 3C, smiling at one of the guards and waving at the other. Neither of them acknowledged Nicolò’s greetings. 

The attending nurse was sitting in a blue plastic chair pulled close to the bed. He lifted his head. “Perfect timing,” he sighed, “Being here so long is draining; it hurts to look at her.” 

“I can imagine,” said Nicolò empathetically. “Go on. You deserve a nice long break.” 

The attendant nodded somberly and pushed himself to his feet, shoes shuffling along as he walked out the door and closed it gently behind him. Nicolò moved carefully towards the chair. The girl was asleep. She was snoring lightly, the sound so quiet, so gentle, you could miss it if you were not listening closely enough. 

“Bonjour, Louisa,” Nicolò said softly, reaching out and stroking the girl’s hair. She looked peaceful, he thought. And small. So very small. At the back of her head was a large lump, no doubt formed from where he had slammed her head into the wall, and an angry red spattering of stitches was painted across her pale forehea d. “ I’m sorry, chérie. I’m sorry this had to happen to you. Life isn’t fair, is it?”

Nicolò leaned forward and pressed his lips just beside the stitching. He straightened his back and looked around. Distantly, he could hear the doctors’ and nurses’ muffled sounds on the other side of the door. Nicolò slipped his hand inside the pocket of his nurse’s uniform and removed a small switchblade with a handle the mere size of his thumb, and he opened the blade, tracing the sharp edge gently with the pad of his left pointer finger, pressing down until a jolt of pain sparked through his hand. When he pulled back his finger, there was a tiny droplet of blood. Nicolò hummed to himself as he moved closer to the bed, watching Louisa’s chest rise and fall for several quiet minutes. It would be easy. It would be so easy. Just one tiny movement and she would be snuffed out completely—another life, gone from the world. He turned his head. The guards weren’t looking at him; they exchanged quick words between each other in rapid-fire French. 

“ Messieurs,” said  Nicolò, grinning as he stood, both hands folded behind his back.

The guards glanced his way, irritable expressions across both of their faces having been interrupted. “ Pouvons-nous vous aider?” One of them, wearing a name tag reading: Bisset, sighed. 

Nicolò approached them carefully, sparing only a glance at the pistols holstered in both of the guards’ utility belts. The weapons didn’t bother him much. He’d faced up to much, much worse. “I must say it’s honorable work you both are doing here today,” Nicolò said. “Very honorable work.” 

“Someone has to do it,” said the other guard, Ansel, gruffly. 

Nicolò nodded in agreement. “I have the greatest respect for the likes of men, such as you two.” 

The guards exchanged a look, and Ansel grinned, puffing out his chest slightly. “I am glad that  _ someone  _ feels this way,” he stated. “We are not always appreciated.” 

“It truly is a shame,” Nicolò said with a sigh, scoffing. He held out his right hand. “I feel lucky to share the room with you both, lucky to share the same space.” 

Bisset smirked, and he laughed, taking Nicolò’s hand in his. “Bong sang!” exclaimed Ansel, shaking his head disbelievingly. “I wish there were more people like you; you would not believe how ungrateful people are these days.” 

“Oh, I believe you,” said Nicolò. He continued to hold on to Bisset’s hand, tightening his grip ever so slightly, and the other man cleared his throat meaningfully; still, Nicolò did not let go. 

“ Très bien, je pense que cela suffit,” said Bisset, chuckling uncomfortably.

“No,”  Nicolò said, an icy kind of stillness coming across his face. “Not nearly enough.” He pulled Bisset towards him and drove the blade into his stomach. Ansel cursed and reached for his pistol. Nicolò removed his knife and shoved Bisset into the wall, whipping around to face his other adversary, knocking the gun to the ground with catlike quickness, lunging for Ansel. He gripped Ansel’s arm in his hand and delivered stab after stab into his chest, and Nicolò didn’t stop until Ansel went limp under his hold. 

Bisset groaned, struggling to stand again. “Fils de pute!” he spat. 

“Oui,” said Nicolò, grabbing Bisset by the shoulder and holding him in place as he delivered a harsh blow to the man’s face with his knee, and Nicolò couldn’t help it. He felt a bubble of fascination and delight at the sickening, yet beautiful,  _ beautiful  _ crunch that he heard. As Bisset groaned, lifting his hand to clutch at the fountain of blood that was pouring from his nostrils, Nicolò buried his fingers in the guard’s hair and pulled back his head before dragging the switchblade across Bisset’s throat. Nicolò released his grip, and Bisset collapsed onto the floor, a wide pool of blood expanding out from beneath his body. 

Nicolò shooks his head, stepping back and lifting one of his feet, glancing down distastefully at the dots of red on his shoe. “Troppo facile…” he murmured, inhaling sharply and exhaling again before turning back to Louisa’s hospital bed. He took one step and then another, and soon he had closed the distance and was looming over her once again. The girl’s eyelashes were fluttering. She was waking up. Nicolò threw the palm of his hand over her mouth. 

“Shh,” said Nicolò. 

Louisa whimpered, but she did not move. 

“ Ne faites aucun bruit,”  Nicolò warned. “Don’t make me draw this out any longer than I need to.” 

Louisa whimpered again, eyes wide, rimmed red with unshed tears, and Nicolò wondered how much of it all she understood. How much did she understand of what she had seen? Of what had happened, of what was happening to her right now, and of course, the answer was simple: she understood all of it. There was an irritating, persistent ache inside of Nicolò’s chest, a feeling he couldn’t quite put to words, but it hurt. It hurt more than anything he had ever felt before. 

“It’s going to be okay,” said Nicolò. “Je promets. Everything is going to be okay.”

He was clenching his jaw so hard that it was almost painful. The sound of his own heart was near deafening inside of his head, and Nicolò felt the frustration burning hot through his whole body. Nicolò brought the blade to Louisa’s throat, applying just the slightest amount of pressure, and he watched as Louisa squeezed her eyes shut, a singular teardrop sliding down her face and landing in the thin hospital sheets. 

“You will be happier this way,” Nicolò assured her quietly. “You will be so much happier this way.” Another tear fell, and then another and another, and Lousia was soon sobbing softly, the sounds muffled by Nicolò’s hand, her chest heaving; shoulders were shaking. 

“Shhh,” said Nicolò. “It will all be over soon.” 

* * *

**YUSUF**

“It will all be over soon,” Nile said, and her  hand was a welcome weight at the top of Joe’s back as they stood side by side in the elevator. “We’ll get our answers, and then we’ll find a nice, cheap bar and get raging, blackout drunk. We’ll forget about this whole horrible thing.” 

Joe nodded. “That sounds nice,” he said, smiling at her. 

Overhead, a French rendition of Queen’s  _ Crazy Little Thing Called Love  _ played over the speakers. “What do you think his motivations are?” Nile asked. “Why do you think he does it?” 

“I’m not sure,” said Joe. “Maybe I’ll ask him.” 

Nile gave him a look. “You’re funny,” she deadpanned. 

“I am,” Joe agreed brightly. 

_ “I’m serious,”  _ Nile pressed. “Do you think he’s being paid? If he’s being paid, then how much? How much do you have to pay someone to convince them to kill another human being?  _ Willingly.  _ And more than once.” She paused, foot-tapping against the tile flooring of the elevator. “I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine accepting any sum of money to do… to do  _ that.”  _ Nile shuddered. “People don’t just kill people. It’s not natural. It’s not a natural thing for a person to do. Shooting to disarm, to immobilize… that’s one thing, but killing the way that he does...” She crossed her arms over her chest and released a heavy breath of air. “We need to find him, Joe.”

“I know we do,” Joe sighed. He paused, adding softly, “You keep reminding me.” 

_ “Because I need you to understand.” _ Nile took several backward steps, her hand falling away from Joe’s back until she could lean against the wall of the elevator, and she tilted her head upwards, staring at the ceiling, squinting at the fluorescent lights. “This is going to sound so fucking stupid,” Nile said, “But I never expected it to be like this. I knew this would be a difficult job,  _ I knew that,  _ and yet…” she scoffed. “I feel as if I’m not doing enough. I feel that I am in over my head here.” 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Joe said softly. “I don’t think anyone could have expected a case like this. I think even Andy has been taken off guard by the whole situation.” 

Nile laughed, “I don’t think anything surprises Andy.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Joe with a one-shouldered shrug. “I think plenty surprises her. She just… likes to act as if it doesn’t.” He winked. The elevator chimed, and the doors parted. Joe bowed his head, motioning dramatically with his hand. “After you, m’lady.” 

Nile smirked and rolled her eyes. “You’re an idiot,” she said, bumping her shoulder into Joe’s before stepping out of the elevator, Joe following behind with a loud burst of laughter. They walked together quietly down the hallway until they came to the room, pausing at the door. Nile touched Joe’s shoulder. “You ready?” she asked. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Joe answered. 

He pushed the door open, and a heartbeat later, Nile screamed. She ran past the motionless corpses of the guards and skittered to a halt at the hospital bed. Joe barely had a moment to comprehend what he saw himself. There was a spattering of blood across the tile flooring, painting the once-pristine white a bright red. 

“Joe!” Nile cried out, glancing over her shoulder. 

Joe cursed and hurried to join Nile’s side. The girl in the bed was still. She was so still. But she was breathing, the rise and fall of her chest so subtle it would be easy to miss if you weren’t looking closely enough. 

“How is she still alive?” Joe said under his breath. 

“I don’t know,” Nile murmured, touching her hand to the girl’s forehead, stroking at the girl’s hair. She moved her hand to the girl’s throat. “Look.” 

There was a tiny cut across her pale skin, a small red mark glowing against her flesh. Joe took a step back from the hospital bed and turned to investigate the corpses. He carefully flipped one of the bodies over and grimaced at the gash across the man’s neck. “Contact the front desk,” Joe instructed, reaching inside his jacket for his handgun. “Tell Celeste that the hospital needs to be put on lockdown. The blood is still fresh. He must have just been here; he couldn’t have gotten very far.” 

“Okay,” said Nile. 

“Stay with her,” Joe continued, gesturing to the girl. “If she wakes up, make sure she’s calm. Make her feel comfortable.” 

Nile nodded. She looked as if she was going to be sick. “Okay,” Nile said again, voice a touch quieter. 

“Keep your eyes open. I’ll be right back.” Joe walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Are you going to be alright?” 

His colleague hesitated. “What should I do if he comes back to finish the job?” Nile asked. 

“I don’t think he will,” said Joe, without thinking. 

Nile gave him an exhausted look. “You don’t know that,” she sighed. 

“Right…” said Joe, biting down on his bottom lip, hand tightening around the doorknob. He shifted from foot to foot in an impatient, distracted sort of way. “Move the chair. So it’s facing the door.” Joe paused. “Turn the safety off your gun and be ready to use it if you have to.” 

“I can do that,” Nile said, and Joe watched as she reached into the back of her jeans and removed her own weapon. She lifted her head. “Can you?” 

Joe stiffened. “Of course I can,” he said before turning back around and stepping out into the hallway, and that hallway, though bustling with life and noise, felt suddenly so, so empty. It was as if the walls were speaking. Thrumming and laughing and pushing in on him. The entire hospital felt as if it were alive. Joe glanced around. He wasn’t sure where to start. Which way to go, and he tried to put himself in the assassin’s shoes; if he, Yusuf al-Kaysani, was a ruthless killer fresh off his most recent murder, where would he go when fleeing the crime scene? The assassin couldn’t have walked back out the front door, could he? 

“Excuse me, Miss,” said Joe, waving down one of the nurses who’s eyes went comically wide at the sight of Joe’s gun. “Is there an employees-only entrance?” He asked. “Back door?” 

“Y-yes,” the nurse answered. “I’m sorry. What’s going on?” 

“Yes to the employees-only entrance or the back door?” Joe mused; he lifted his gun and tilted it from side to side, shrugging with one shoulder. “Nothing to worry about,” Joe said, figuring a small white lie would be better than the truth at the moment. “Precautionary measures.” 

The nurse blinked, looking like a doe in the headlights. “Yes to the employees-only entrance,” she said. 

“Brilliant, thank you,” Joe said, smiling. “Where would I find it?”

“Basement floor,” the nurse replied. 

“Thank you,” Joe echoed. He began to walk away, several steps, before stopping and looking at the nurse over his shoulder. “If you can, find a room. Lock yourself and anyone else who’s in it inside.” Joe continued onward before the nurse had the time to ask questions. 

When Joe reached the elevator, he noticed a security camera hanging over the doors, and he made a mental note to ask Annabelle about checking the footage later. The elevator chimed open, and Joe stepped inside, pressing the button for the basement floor. This time, it was a French version of Blondie’s  _ One Way or Another  _ playing in the small space. Joe breathed in and then out again as he watched the bright neon numbers count backward as the elevator descended. Over and over, the same question passed through his head. Why? Why had he left the girl alive?  _ Again.  _ He had left her the first time, at Merrick Manor, and he had left her a second time, in the Annecy hospital.  _ Why?  _

The elevator opened, and Joe stepped out, the pad of his finger pressing gently over the trigger. Overhead, the lights were flickering slightly. All along the walls were iron built shelves of medical supplies and indistinct office doors. Joe’s footsteps echoed as he walked cautiously down the hall. There was a slight cool breeze coming from somewhere. 

“Come on, uccisore,” Joe said under his breath. “ Vieni fuori ovunque tu sia…” 

Joe turned the corner and frowned. There it was; the employee’s entrance door, a small station for clocking in and out closeby. He approached the door. It was shut tightly; he turned to the timeclock table, crouching to observe it closer, and frowned. Resting on the center of the table was a rectangular shaped timesheet, blank of any times, but covered in deep, wet crimson letters that read:  _ turn around =)  _

“Shit,” said Joe.

“Merda indeed,” a smooth, rhythmic voice agreed. Joe turned quickly, aiming his gun straight at the man’s chest, just above his heart. The man only smiled, head tilting to the side as if he found this all very amusing. “Ciao, Yusuf.” 

Joe met the assassin’s gaze. It was sharp and bright, and it glimmered under the fluorescent lights. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” Joe said firmly. 

“Because I have the information you need,” Paolo answered. “I have the answers.” 

“Answers to what?” Joe demanded. 

Paolo laughed softly. “To why I am doing this. To whom I am working.” He raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

_ Yes,  _ thought Joe, jaw tightening almost painfully. “Let me take you somewhere,” Joe said, and he said it before completely understanding what he was saying. “We can talk. We can talk just you and me.”

“Mi piacerebbe davvero,” Paolo said, a look of gentleness so brief coming over his face that Joe thought he had imagined it. There was a long bout of silence that stretched between them, and Joe was sure that the other man could hear his heartbeat. Paolo smiled and looked around. “Do you not think it’s strange?” 

Joe stared at the assassin. “Do I not think  _ what  _ is strange?” 

“Do you not think it’s strange…” Paolo repeated, making a vague gesture with his hand. “That the alarms have not been sounded yet.” 

Joe furrowed his eyebrows. “What?” he said. 

“The  _ alarms,”  _ Paolo pressed. “They have not…” he frowned. “How do you say it in English. Andato spento?” He shrugged. “I thought your friend would have called the front desk by now. No?” 

“She did,” said Joe, tightening his hold on the gun. 

“Then why,” Paolo said, a broad, emotionless grin spreading across his face, “Do I not hear the alarms?” 

Joe’s heart skipped and stuttered and dropped straight into his stomach. He thought he was going to be sick. 

They’d been had. 

“Fuck,” Joe said, and the word hadn’t even left his mouth completely when the lights went out all the way, throwing both men into darkness. “ _ Fuck!”  _ Joe shouted, firing once, hitting nothing, and in the same second, he heard the door open behind him and slam shut. 

Joe turned and fumbled for the door, throwing it open and stepping out in the slowly darkening afternoon, the assassin nowhere to be seen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos appreciated, not required!
> 
> Come talk to me at: nicoloalkaysani on tumblr
> 
> Special thanks to anonymonypony for always being a fateful beta reader.


	4. i don't want to be free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his ability to kill in question, Nicolo is forced to confront his own capabilities and mental state as Joe is forced to face the music.

**YUSUF**

Feeling exceptionally perturbed, Joe stepped out of the hospital, glancing up and down the parking lot. The assassin couldn’t have gotten very far; he was close by. Joe knew he was close by. He couldn’t waste this opportunity. He couldn’t let “Paolo” get away this time and made up his mind in an instant, pulling out his phone to quickly text Nile, ensuring that she was okay, warning her, and informing her of the situation. Joe waited several moments until she responded, confirming her safety before he took off in a sprint down the streets of France. His heart was a steady orchestra of percussion inside of his head, and his breathing was coming fast and rapid as if he’d just run a half marathon; over and over again, he told himself,  _ you can do this. You have to.  _ Because it was easier than admitting the truth, which was, of course,  _ I don’t know if I can.  _

As Joe approached one of the busier streets, he tucked his gun in the back of his jeans and pulled his jacket over it. He approached a pair of women sitting on a bench together, one with light blond locks and the other, an Asian woman, a brunette with a wild mane of curls, quite similar to Joe’s own hair texture. Their heads were bent close, and they seemed to be engaged in riveting conversation. 

“Excuse me,” said Joe. “I was hoping you could help me with something.” 

The women exchanged a look. “Yes?” the blonde said, looking annoyed and not bothering to hide it. 

Joe reached inside of his jacket and extracted a folded up piece of paper; a copy of the illustration he had done of the assassin. He held it out in front of him. “Have either of you seen this man?” Joe asked. 

The women glanced at each other again. “He was just here,” the brunette answered. Her accent was American. “He was asking for directions to the nearest pub.” 

“Which way?” 

“Just down the street,” the brunette said. “Only a few blocks away. L'Amnésie Annecy. You can’t miss it.” 

Joe grinned. “Thank you.” He picked up a steady pace, jogging down the street. When he reached the corner of the block, he stood for several moments, staring at the pub’s front entrance. Joe breathed in and then out again before crossing the street. There weren’t too many people inside; a group of college students crammed into a back booth, a couple at the far right end of the bar, three elderly gentlemen sat around a table placed in the center of the pub, and… 

The assassin sat right in the middle of the bar, his back to Joe, bent over a beer bottle. 

“Hey,” said Joe. 

The assassin glanced over his shoulder, a small, cautious smile on his face. “Hello.” He motioned to the empty barstool beside him. “Why don’t you have a seat, Yusuf.” 

“I can’t tell if you’re stupid or arrogant,” Joe observed. 

“Scusa?” Paolo snorted. 

Joe shrugged, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket, thumbs sticking out. “If I were you,” he said, “And I had just committed two counts of murder, of two police officers at that, I would have gotten as far away from the crime scene as possible. Yet, here  _ you _ are, at the bar around the corner. So you’re either being stupid, which I don’t quite believe because you’re better than that, or you’re arrogant, and you think you won’t get caught.” 

“You have not considered a third possibility,” said Paolo. 

“Which is?” Joe asked. 

Paolo shrugged and turned his back to Joe, leaning over his drink. “That I knew you would follow me, and I wanted to wait, and that part of _ you _ knew I’d be waiting.” He paused, and when Joe did not respond right away, the assassin snickered. “You are very predictable, Mr. al-Kaysani. Has anyone ever said that before?” 

“No,” Joe said. “You’re the only one.” 

Paolo was quiet for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching, as if he wanted to smile, but wasn’t quite sure it was the right thing to do. “Have a seat. Please.” Another moment passed before Joe conceded, pulling back the barstool and sliding his knees beneath the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?” Paolo asked. 

“No, thanks.” 

“Oh,” said Paolo. “Change of heart?” 

“When you bought me that first drink the night you killed Keane, you were a stranger to me,” Joe explained, “Now I know you.” 

Paolo raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“It is,” Joe said.

“And you don’t trust me?” Paolo questioned, tone light, teasing. 

“Would you?” Joe asked. “If you were in my place.” 

“No,” Paolo said, almost instantly.

“There you have it then,” said Joe. 

Paolo took a long swig from his bottle before setting it back down. He turned his head towards one of the windows; many laughing young adults took their seats at the front deck. “They look happy,” Paolo commented. He frowned. “Are you happy, Joe?” 

“What do you mean?” Joe said. 

Paolo shifted in his stool so that he was facing Joe again. “I meant exactly what I said,” Paolo stated. “I want to know if you are happy.” 

“Is anyone ever happy?” Joe questioned with a scoff. 

_ “I’m _ happy.” Paolo said and Joe looked at him.  _ “I am.  _ My job takes me all over the world. I have a lot of money—too much money to really know what to do with. I have everything a modern man could ever want. Why should I ever be unhappy?” He tilted his head to the side. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

“Who says I want to be happy,” Joe said quietly. “Isn’t being… isn’t  _ being  _ enough?” 

Paolo blinked. “That is a very bleak way of looking at life.” 

“Good thing, it’s my life then,” said Joe, “And not yours.” 

“Good thing,” Paolo echoed. 

“But that’s too much of me. I want to hear more about you.” Joe leaned close to the other man’s ear. “You had two opportunities to kill the girl,” he said, keeping his tone at a level no more than a whisper, feeling a surge of satisfaction when Paolo shuddered. “You didn’t. I want to know why.” 

Paolo inclined his head back just an inch so that he could look Joe in the eyes. His eyes reminded Joe of glimmering green sea glass and the dark night sky. “Tell me what  _ you _ think,” said Paolo. 

“Okay,” Joe said, gaze flickering over the assassin’s face, landing and lingering for what he knew was too long on his lips. “I think there’s more to you than meets the eyes; I think there’s more to what you do. No normal person wakes up one day and decides they want to kill other people for a living.” 

Paolo nodded slowly. “Go on,” he said, voice turned honey smooth. The tips of his fingers were resting against the back of Joe’s stool, just barely brushing his back. 

“I think you’ve been working for a long time, and by that, I mean I think you’ve been killing people for a long time, but just now, people are starting to notice, which means you’re clever,” Joe continued. “You’re too clever to make a mistake as big as leaving a witness alive and to make the same mistake twice in a row?” Joe whistled. “Well, it has to be on purpose.” 

“Hmm,” said Paolo. “Interessante. Please. Go on.”

Joe leaned forward. “I think someone is making you do this. I don’t think you have a choice, and because you’ve messed up two times in a row, there are going to be terrible consequences.” He watched as the muscles beneath the assassin’s jaw jumped. “I can help you.” Joe said, and Paolo huffed incredulously. “I  _ can.”  _

“And why would you want to do that?” Paolo mused. 

“Because it’s my job,” Joe said. “It’s my job to help people.” 

Paolo laughed, a small, soft thing, just barely an exhale of air. “Even people like me?” the assassin asked. 

“I think,” Joe said, “Especially people like you.” 

“What would Andromache think?” Paolo asked, and he laughed again when Joe stiffened. “Don’t worry. I am not interested in her.” He paused. “What makes you so sure I want your help?” 

“Nothing does,” Joe said. “It’s just a feeling.” 

Paolo raised an eyebrow. “You came after me… on a  _ feeling _ .” 

“I’ve never been wrong before,” Joe replied. 

“That is awfully arrogant of you,” said Paolo, “Don’t you think?” 

Joe shrugged. “Actually, no. No, I wouldn’t think so,” he responded. “I have a perfect record with these sorts of things. I’ve always been pretty good at reading people. It’s sort of like a superpower. I can always tell when someone is bullshitting me. I can catch a lie from a mile away.” 

“Interesting,” Paolo murmured. “You really believe that.” 

“I do.” 

“Perhaps someone needs to…” Paolo trailed off, eyebrows furrowing. “Apologies. I do not know the phrase in English. Knock you down a few steps?” 

“A few pegs,” Joe corrected. 

Paolo nodded, snapping his fingers. “Si. Esattamente!” The assassin rested both of his arms on top of the bar and leaned forward. “Maybe I will be the person to do it.” 

“Maybe,” said Joe, idly. 

“So what now?” Paolo mused. “You’ve found me. Are you going to arrest me?” 

When Joe didn’t answer right away, Paolo reached into his jeans’ right pocket and deposited a mess of paper bills beside the half-drunk beer bottle. He quirked his head towards the door. “I am taking you somewhere more private.” 

“You expect me to follow you?” Joe mused. 

“You already have,” Paolo pointed out. “Might as well continue.” 

Paolo slipped off of the barstool and waited, arms crossed over his chest, staring at Joe expectantly. The assassin tapped his shoe against the floor impatiently. 

_ Fuck it,  _ thought Joe.  _ You’ve got a gun. If he tries something, use it.  _ “Ten minutes,” he warned, stepping down from his seat as well. “But that’s it.” 

“I will only need five,” Paolo dismissed. 

Joe felt his cell phone vibrating where it pressed against his ass, tucked in the right back pocket of his jeans, and chose to ignore it. He followed the assassin out of the bar and down the street. They passed the bench, and by now, the two women had gone. The sky was dark, the streets glowing from the lights of the street lamps. Paolo’s hands were in his pockets, and he slowed his pace so that Joe could join him at his side. 

“Do you live close?” Joe asked. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Paolo snorted. “Why? Are you interested in coming home with me?” 

Joe barked out a huff of laughter. “Another time, perhaps,” and Joe was joking, of course, he was joking, but a strange part of him felt that it was true. 

The part of Joe that looked at this beautiful man, this murderer, wanted to know absolutely everything, and so everything was on the tip of his tongue, desperate to fly past his lips. Paolo was walking so close that their hands were brushing. Under the darkening sky, the assassin’s eyes looked more blue than green. Joe thought he might be able to study them for hours and his fingers itched for his sketchbook and colored pencils. He wanted to capture this man. Immortalize him in image after image, crafted by his own hands. 

“Tell me more about yourself,” said Joe.

“And why would I do that,” Paolo countered. 

“I’m just trying to make conversation,” Joe said lightly. “It doesn’t have to be anything serious. I’m not going to ask for your name. I know you’re not going to give that to me. I would ask for the answers you’ve promised me, but I’m guessing you won’t give me those until you’re ready, until we arrive at wherever the hell you’re taking me, so let’s just keep it simple. What’s your favorite color?” The assassin snorted. “I’m serious. What’s your favorite color?” 

Paolo raised an eyebrow, and for a moment, Joe didn’t think he would answer, but then he said, “Green.” 

“See,” said Joe, “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He paused. “If you were stranded on a deserted island, what is the one thing you would take with you?” 

“This is what you like to call a ‘conversation’?” Paolo teased. 

“I’ve got this swiss army knife I keep in the drawer of my bedside table,” Joe went on, “My father gave it to me when I was sixteen. My mother was so angry, but I was overjoyed. It’s stupid, but I’d never felt like such a man as I did unwrapping that damn thing. Anyways, that’s what I would take with me.” 

Paolo laughed. It was a quiet laugh. So quiet that it might have been mistaken for a cough. “I wouldn’t have thought you to be the sentimental type.” 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Joe said. “Go on. Your turn.” 

Paolo titled his head to the side, gazing somewhere off in the distance. “If you insist,” he sighed. “Mine’s not particularly original. I am like you. I would bring a knife as well. Needlepoint. One of my favorites. Very efficient. Easy to hide. Multipurpose.” 

“Interesting choice,” Joe commented. 

“You don’t approve?” Paolo mused. 

Joe shrugged. “I would’ve thought you’d prefer something a bit more dramatic. Everything I’ve seen you done has been so.”

“I’m not sure what to tell you,” Paolo said. “I am complesso.” He stopped at the entrance of a dark, damp alleyway, and he made a motion with his hand and bowed his head. “After you.” 

“Hmm,” said Joe, “And here I was thinking you were taking me to a nice restaurant.” Joe lifted his chin, eyes narrowing. “Please. After  _ you.”  _

Paolo stared at him for several long, icy moments before the grin spread across his face. “Giusto,” said the assassin, and he shoved both of his hands in his jacket pockets before sauntering down the alley. 

“What was so important that you needed to get me alone to tell me,” said Joe, reaching behind his back. 

“Have you always wanted to hunt criminals, Yusuf?” Paolo asked, avoiding Joe’s question. 

“Have you always wanted to kill people for a living?” Joe questioned, following the other man’s lead, avoiding answering. 

Paolo stopped halfway down the alley, and Joe couldn’t see his face, but he somehow knew that the assassin was smiling. “I don’t know,” he said, “Life has funny ways of working out. Growing up, I always thought I was going to be a priest.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously.” Paolo shrugged one shoulder. “I was in line to be shipped out to the monastery and everything.”  
Joe nodded slowly. “Then what happened?” 

“What happened…” Paolo echoed, whistling softly and shaking his head. “Is that not the question of the decade.” He looked over his shoulder and smirked. “Well. Hello.” 

Joe held onto the handle of the gun with both hands, keeping his aim steady. “Hello,” he echoed. 

“What exactly are you planning on doing with that?” Paolo asked, crossing his arms over his chest, expression over his face gone completely blank, unreadable. “Are you going to kill me, Joe?” 

“Not if I don’t have to,” said Joe, “It will be easier if you come with me.” 

Paolo narrowed his eyes. “Is this how you end all of your dates?” he questioned. “By aiming a gun at your potential lover’s chest?” 

“You’re my potential lover now, are you?” Joe said, slight edge to his voice, and he wasn’t quite sure whether the thought of it lit something warm inside of him or something very, very cold. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“Che carino,” Paolo tutted, shaking his head. He took a step forward and then another, Joe’s hand tightening so hard around the handle that his knuckles were whitening. “I think it's funny that you think you can hurt me.” 

“And I think you underestimate me,” Joe said. 

“Is that so?” Paolo moved closer until the end of the gun was only an inch from pressing against his chest.  _ “Prove it.” _

Joe’s jaw tightened. “Prove what?” 

“You know what,” said Paolo, reaching out his hand and stroking his palm down the right side of Joe’s neck. “Prove you can do it. Your friend will be happy if you do. Your boss will be proud, and I promise I won’t be too angry with you. I’ll understand.” Paolo’s fingers drifted up to the back of Joe’s head, curling around his hair. “Go on. Pull the trigger, mio caro.” 

“Come with me,” Joe said shakily. “Please. Come with me. It’ll be so much easier if you just confess to the things you’ve done; if you just explain  _ why.”  _

“Oh Yusuf…” Paolo sighed . “ Devi essere più intelligente di così.”

“Excuse me?” 

Paolo grabbed Joe’s wrist in his fingers, the hand that had been holding the gun, and he shoved the other man against the alleyway, pinning Joe’s hand to the side, grasping him so tightly that both men knew there would be bruises later. The assassin’s arm was pressed against Joe’s throat, holding him in place. 

“Don’t struggle,” Paolo warned. “Drop the gun, Joe.” He curled his fingers around Joe’s, squeezing ever so slightly. “Drop the gun.” 

Before he was even aware he was doing it, Joe felt his fingers uncurling and there went the gun, clattering onto the ground. 

“Bravo ragazzo,” Paolo hummed. “I am going to trust you not do anything stupid.” 

Joe nodded, and Paolo released the other man’s wrist, reaching into the left pocket of his jacket, emerging again with a small, bloodied knife, and he placed the tip of it just over the spot above Joe’s heart. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, Joe,” Paolo said coldly, echoing Joe’s earlier words, his grip around the handle of the switchblade tightening as he pushed the tip of it harder against Joe’s chest without actually pushing it in. He inhaled and then exhaled softly. “It is very intimate. Killing someone like this. With a knife.” 

“So I’ve heard,” Joe replied thinly. 

“Don’t make me hurt you,” Paolo warned. He lifted his other hand, the one not holding the blade, and he rested it gently against the side of Joe’s face, his thumb stroking the flesh just above the mark where Joe’s skin met his beard. “I will tell you a secret, and I want you to listen very carefully.” 

“Okay,” said Joe, as if there was a knot lodged tight in his throat. 

Paolo ducked his head, leaning in close to Joe’s ear. “I don’t want to be free,” he whispered, his breath hot. Paolo let his mouth press against the other man’s skin, his lips brushing Joe’s cheek. “The sooner you understand that, the better.” The assassin pressed a bruising kiss into Joe’s skin. “You should let this go,” Paolo whispered. 

Joe’s eyelashes fluttered, his shoulders were painfully stiff. “You know I can’t do that,” he said, voice thick, and it hurt.  _ Why did it hurt so much?  _

Paolo chuckled. “Do you have any idea what you’re dealing with?” 

“You haven’t really told me much, which, let the record show, you had previously promised me you would,” said Joe, hoping he came across as confident as he needed to, “So I think you know the answer to that.” 

“They’re powerful,” Paolo said, voice lulling, and he carefully slipped his arm away from Joe’s throat, moving his hand to Joe’s upper arm, stroking up and down over the fabric of his shirt. “They’re very powerful, and more than that, they’re everywhere. They are in every face you pass, every organization you have ever given your money to.” 

“And you know these people?” Joe questioned. “The people you work for.” 

The bone beneath Paolo’s jaw jumped, and the movement was very, very small, but Joe caught it. “Of course, I know who I work for,” said Paolo. “What sort of man do you think I am?” 

“I’ve no idea,” Joe replied, “But talking to you now, I can tell you with complete certainty that you haven’t a single clue what you’re doing. You say you can read me. That I am transparent, and you can tell just by a quick look that I’m easily bored, well, it’s the same to me with you. I can see it in your eyes. You’re lost. You are just as lost as the rest of us poor, miserable suckers, and you  _ hate  _ that; you can’t stand it, but you can’t fix it either.” 

Paolo blinked, and Joe thought he might have been imagining it, but the assassin’s eyes seemed to shine with unshed tears. “You think you’re smart, don’t you?” Paolo mused. 

“I  _ am  _ smart,” Joe said. 

Paolo dragged the tip of the knife up until it was tracing up against Joe’s neck. “No,” said Paolo.  “ Non abbastanza intelligente.” With catlike quickness, he buried his hand in Joe’s hair and slammed the other man’s head into the wall, once, twice, and then a third time, watching passively as Joe slumped to the ground. Paolo shook his head, pocketing the knife again before he crouched down beside Joe’s unconscious body, dragging his palm over the back of Joe’s skull and cringing when it came away sticky with blood. He scoffed, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and removing a folded up piece of paper, brought it to his lips, and kissed the paper. 

“Apologies,” Paolo murmured, slipping the folded square into Joe’s own jacket before standing again and brushing the blood across the front of his jeans. He turned, looking around, smiling slightly when he saw a fire escape further down the alleyway. 

Paolo began a casual, steady pace towards the black, low-hanging ladder, singing softly under his breath: 

_ “Rilassati, non farlo. Quando vuoi andare fallo. Rilassati, non farlo. Quando vuoi venire…”  _

Paolo jumped, gripping either side of the ladder in his hands and pulling it down within stepping reach. 

“Hey, stronzo!” Joe shouted. 

The assassin heard the gunshot before he had the time to react, allowing himself only a moment to feel the pain, to experience it deep in his bones, before he clamored up the ladder. Below him, Paolo watched Joe stagger toward him, firing again, this time missing. 

“That is very rude!” Paolo called down to the other man. 

“So is bashing my head into the fucking wall!” Joe shouted back. 

“Oh, cresci,” Paolo dismissed, and a bullet skimmed past his shoulder. “Vaffanculo!” He jumped onto the balcony, looking around. 

Joe’s head ached, the pain at the back of his skull sharp and unrelenting, and he could feel it, the blood dampening the back of his neck. Everything was sort of spinning, the walls closing in, and it took several tries before Joe was able to wrap his hand firmly around the first rung of the ladder and hoist himself up. Everything seemed too loud. The traffic just outside of the alleyway, the chatter of the people passing by, was all too much. Little spots of black dotted across Joe’s vision. He knew he was moving too slow, and he knew what he would find when he reached the balcony, save to say he knew he would find nothing and nothing there was. Joe gripped the railing, swaying slightly from side to side. His stomach was tossing and turning violently, and he could still feel the blood sliding down the back of his head.

When Joe reached back to touch the place where his skull had collided with the brick, he winced, a sharp pain cutting through his whole body. Joe pulled his hand back. It was soaked in blood. He leaned over the balcony, eyes squinting. Carefully, Joe climbed down the ladder again, each step shaky and uneven. More than once, he almost slipped, and when he dropped back down to the ground, he wobbled a bit, nearly falling over. Joe took a moment, leaning with his back against the wall, just beneath the fire escape, squeezing his eyes shut, inhaling sharply, feeling remarkably stupid. When Joe opened his eyes again, the world around him was blurry, too blurry. A few paces ahead of him were little specks of red in the pavement. 

Joe felt the smile on his face, and he heard it in his own voice as he stepped closer to the droplets of blood. “I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you, you fucking bastard.” And then, quite promptly, he collapsed. 

* * *

**NICOLO**

The next day it was early in the morning. The sun hadn’t even risen yet when Nicolò heard the knock on his front door. He sighed, leaning his head back, blinking up at the ceiling. Whoever it was, he wasn’t in the mood for entertaining company; there was a raging, consistent ache at the back of his head and his arm hurt. It hurt in a way where Nicolò wondered if he’d ever been hurt before, and of course, he knew he was dramatic, but what real harm was there in that? He’d been shot and shot by a beautiful man who he was sure hated him greatly. Nicolò felt that he’d more than earned the right to be dramatic. Why was it that being hated by beautiful people stung more than being hated by the ugly ones? After several moments, the knocking came again, louder this time. 

“I’m not home!” Nicolò called out from where he sat on top of the closed toilet lid. The assassin sighed heavily when he heard the front door creak open. “I said I’m not home, please go away.”

Copley appeared at the entrance of the bathroom. “Jesus Christ, what happened?” he exclaimed, closing the distance between himself and the assassin, crouching down beside him. 

Nicolò glanced from his arm to the blood-soaked rag and back again. “What?” he said. “This?  Non è niente.”

“It doesn’t look like ‘nothing,’” Copley returned flatly, glaring at the other man.  _ “What happened?”  _

_ “Niente,”  _ Nicolò said, shrugging. 

Copley sighed, “I am imploring you not to be difficult. Here. Let me.” He gently eased the cloth from Nicolò’s hand and stood again, moving to the sink, setting the old rag aside and grabbing a new one from the towel rack. “Now tell me, what happened,” said Copley. 

“Someone shot me,” Nicolò answered. 

“Not very helpful, I can see that quite clearly for myself,” Copley grunted, running the fresh towel under the water, dampening just the corner.  _ “Who  _ shot you?” he asked. 

“Who do you think?” said Nicolò. 

“Okay then. How did Mr. al-Kaysani get close enough to shoot you?” Copley pressed. 

“Very astute assumption.” Nicolò shrugged. “I have no idea.” 

“I’m sure you don’t,” Copley said flatly. “I am scheduling another appointment with the psychologist. I want you to be re-evaluated.” 

Nicolò scowled. “And why would you want that? I’m fine.” 

“Really?” Copley said dubiously, “Because it would not seem that way.” 

“You know I hate the psych evaluations,” Nicolò murmured.  _ “ _ _ Andiamo, perché?” _

Copley crouched, leveling himself eye to eye with  Nicolò  as he pressed the towel against the assassin’s wound. “You know why,” Copley sighed. He hesitated. “They’ll send someone else, and you know this. Don’t you?”  Nicolò shrugged. “She was going to die one way or another. The only thing that has changed now is that it won’t be you who does the killing.” 

For a moment, the assassin was quiet, his gaze fixed very stubbornly somewhere just over Copley’s shoulder. He wouldn’t look his companion in the eyes, his jaw painfully stiff. “Who will kill her?” Nicolò asked. 

Copley snorted, standing again and walking to the bathroom cabinet. “Even if I knew, I do not think it would be wise for me to tell you.” He rummaged around until he emerged again with a small bottle of antiseptic and a roll of bandages. Copley sat on the edge of the bathtub. And touched the side of Nicolò’s face, caressing the assassin’s cheek in his hand, smiling softly at him in a way that was tired and pitiful and fond somehow all at once. “Per favore, Nicolò,” said Copley. “For me. They will not let you go back to work if they think you are incapable and then what will I do, hmm? If you are forced into early retirement?” 

“It won’t happen,” Nicolò said, inching his face away from the other man. 

Copley only hummed in response, taking Nicolò’s wrist in his fingers and resting the other man’s arm against his leg. “This will sting a little,” he warned as he unscrewed the top of the antiseptic, pouring it onto the other end of the towel. “Do you know why the Twelve recruited you?” 

“Because I am good at my job,” Nicolò stated, hissing through his teeth as Copley pressed the antiseptic-wet cloth to his arm. “I am good at killing people.” 

“You are very good at killing people,” Copley echoed in agreement. He pressed, as he dragged the towel up and down Nicolò’s arm in slow, small motions. “Without inflating your ego too much, you are spectacular at your job, so when something happens to contradict that, people notice. The Twelve does not care about who it is you kill. If they interpret someone as a problem, they will expect you to deal with said problem. What will happen to you when you cannot do as they wish?” 

Copley didn’t wait for Nicolò to answer, reaching for the bandages; he began to bind them tightly around Nicolò’s arm. “I’m sure you remember Lykon.” 

“The name does not sound familiar,” said Nicolò offhandedly. 

“You remember him,” Copley dismissed. “You were both being trained around the same time. I worked side-by-side occasionally if I recall correctly, the last time you went on a mission with another person, I think. 2018, during the summer. The two of you were sent to kill a couple of wealthy oil investors. I don’t entirely know what happened, but the pair of you got the job done well; well enough that the victims were killed, but afterward, Lykon was different. Rumors were that something about him changed. Something dramatic and suddenly he wasn’t as effective as he used to be.” 

Nicolò’s eyes flickered, darkened, and he nodded, humming, “Now that you mention it, his name does sound familiar.” He stiffened as Copley pulled on the bandages to tie them off, securing them to Nicolò’s body. “How do you know so much? I thought they didn’t tell you anything.” 

“I have my ways,” said Copley, shrugging. “You haven’t heard much from Lykon since that assignment, have you?” Nicolò shook his head. “I’m not telling you that something happened to him, but it would be in your best interest to keep it in mind, and I don’t think I have to remind you of what had to happen to Keane.” 

Nicolò squinted. He pulled back his arm, turning it over and admiring the bandages, seeming unbothered. “Of course,” said Nicolò, tone offhanded, “That is a different story. Keane deserved it.” 

“I’m not sure if that’s up to you,” Copley said. 

“It isn’t up to me,” Nicolò murmured, “Yet you send me to do your bidding, hmm? I have no say in whether he deserves to live or not, yet I’m the one who gets to pull the trigger.” 

“You’re right,” Copley agreed. “But we all-” 

“Have our roles to play,” Nicolò dismissed, finishing the other man’s sentence with a wave of the hand. 

Copley smiled. “See,” he said, “You understand.” Copley stood and held out his hand. 

“What are you doing?” said Nicolò. 

“Helping you up,” Copley answered. “Your appointment is in about thirty minutes. We need to leave now if we’re going to be there on time.”

Nicolò raised an eyebrow. “You already scheduled an appointment? A bit over-confident. What if I told you I wasn’t going?” 

“What made you think there was ever an option?” Copley mused, reaching down to grab Nicolò’s hand and gripping it in his, pulling the assassin to his feet. “Come on. It’ll be over before you know it. All you need to do is answer a few simple questions.”

“It is always just a few simple questions,” Nicolò sighed. “Alright. Give me a moment to change.”

* * *

**YUSUF**

When Joe awoke, it was daytime, and he was lying in a hospital bed. Beside him, there was Nile, reading a magazine. He blinked wearily as his vision readjusted, and he struggled to sit up, Nile noticed instantly and pushed gently on his shoulder, easing him back down. 

“Relax,” Nile said quietly.

“What’s going on?” Joe murmured. 

Nile’s hand moved gently over the back of Joe’s head, curling carefully around his skull. “Concussion,” she explained, “And a pretty nasty bump. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.” Nile leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Joe’s forehead before sitting back down in her chair. “I’m a bit surprised. I didn’t think you would have gone after him the way you did.” 

Joe shrugged. “What else was I supposed to do?” 

“You shot him too,” Nile commented, “I’m very impressed actually. I was starting to think you didn’t have it in you anymore. I mean. I wish you would have been a bit more careful about it, but hey, his blood is all over the crime scene. Andy sent a forensics team over last night after I found you. We should see results soon.” She hesitated. “I was worried about you.” 

“You were?” said Joe.

“Of course I was,” Nile pressed, “I went looking for you when you didn’t come back after an hour and when I found you…” Nile shuddered. “You were so pale. I’d never seen you look so pale before.” 

Joe smiled. “I don’t know what I would do without you,” he said softly. 

“Do you believe it now?” Nile asked.

“Believe what?” Joe said. 

“That this guy is dangerous. You have to understand that now.” 

Joe stared at his hands where they rested in his lap, his fingers pulling at the thin hospital blanket. “Yeah, I get that now,” Joe murmured. The edge of his nail caught on a loose string, and he wound it around his finger, tugging on the string until it pulled free. “I’m sorry. I should have listened to you.” 

Nile sighed heavily. “It’s fine,” she muttered, shaking her head, “Just don’t do it again.” The corner of Nile’s lip quirked up. “The Old Guard wouldn’t be the same without you. Andy wouldn’t be the same without you. Hell, I’ve only been working with you all of a year, and I can see that.” 

“What do you mean?” Joe asked, frowning. 

“It’s no secret that you, Andy, and Booker are close,” Nile said, “You’ve known each other for a long time. I think…” she trailed off for a moment, “I think you’re like a family and I don’t think any of you would last particularly long without each other. I know Andy puts on this brave face, even though I haven’t really known her that long, I can still tell, I’ve always been good with reading people in that way no matter how many walls they have up, and I know you put on a brave face too. But you need each other. You do. If something were to happen to you, Joe… Andy wouldn’t forgive herself. If you’re not going to be careful for yourself, just think of that, and if anything, try to be careful for her.” 

Joe’s face softened. He reached out his hand, and Nile let him take hers. “I’ll bear that in mind,” said Joe. “You’re good for this team, Nile. Really good. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that before, but you are.” 

“What can I say,” Nile said, shrugging like she didn’t quite care but smiling like it was the most important thing she’d ever heard. “I’m doing the best I can. It’s what we’re all doing when you get down to it.”

For several moments a startling but welcome peace fell over the room; a silence between the two, the only sounds the beeping of medical equipment and the footsteps of nurses and doctors walking through the halls. 

“The authorities are transporting Louisa to Nantes this afternoon. That’s where her grandparents live. I’d ask you to come with me to try and get some answers from the girl, but you’re on strict instructions to stay in bed,” Nile explained. “I’ll have to go on without you. Is that alright?” 

“We don’t exactly have a choice, do we?” Joe snorted. “It’s okay, Nile. Just give me a debriefing when you’re done.” He smiled. “You’ve got this, Freeman.” 

“I know I do,” Nile said, and she winked. “Will you be okay here by yourself?” 

Joe gestured to the television set mounted on the wall across for him. “Of course I’ll be okay,” Joe said, “I’ve got everything I need right here. Comedy Central plays _The Office_ on repeat.”  
“I don’t think this hospital gets Comedy Central,” Nile said. 

“You’re right,” Joe agreed, “It probably doesn’t. I guess I’ll just find some French daytime soap operas.” 

Nile laughed, low and quiet, eyes bright. “I think a bit of soap opera drama will be good for you,” she said, “You’ve got enough real drama going on in your life as it is.” Nile reached out and squeezed Joe’s arm before she lifted her hand to his hair again, stroking her fingers through his strands for several seconds. She pushed back her chair, the legs screeching across the tiles, and she stood. “Get some rest, Joe,” Nile instructed. 

“No promises,” Joe said, “I’ve never been very good at ‘rest.’” 

Nile smirked. “Why does that not surprise me?” she mused with a chuckle. 

No more than ten minutes had passed after Nile left did Joe find himself drifting off to sleep. His dreams were haunted with deep crimson blood and knives of all kinds, guns of different calibers. Weapons that were far worse than that. Weapons that Joe had only ever dreamed of witnessing in person one day. He saw lacerations and scars and wounds so deep you could stick your entire finger inside of it, and you still would not have reached the true depths. There were people with slices across their throats so wide it was almost smile-like, and there were smashed in heads; human faces mangled beyond recognition. Unspeakable violence, and while Joe was used to seeing violence, this was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed before in his entire life. And the man. The beautiful, brutal man with the eyes like ocean waves in the Mediterranean; through all of the gore and the viscera, Joe saw his eyes. He felt his touch. Warm. Tantalizing and addicting. Joe wanted more; he needed more, and he didn’t know why. The not knowing why made it all the worse and all the better, somehow at the same time. 

Joe awoke again to a knock on the door, and when he opened his eyes, a police officer entered the room looking sheepish. “Excusez-moi, Mr. al-Kaysani,” said the officer. His face was cleanly shaven. He looked no older than twenty-one. There was a plastic bag in his hand, and inside the plastic bag, what looked to be a very small piece of paper. “We recovered this from your jacket,” the officer explained. 

“What is it?” Joe asked. 

“Unclear,” the officer answered. “We checked for fingerprints, but your colleague thought it best if you had a look before we filed it.” 

Joe nodded. “Bring it here.” The officer approached Joe’s hospital bed and handed him the bag. “Did you find any?” Joe asked, “Fingerprints?” 

“No,” said the officer, “We found nothing.” He paused, hesitating a moment. “Was it not yours?” 

“Nope,” Joe answered as he opened the bag. “If I had to take a guess? It’s a little gift from our friend.” 

“Friend?” 

“The killer,” Joe clarified. He lifted the note from the bag and unfolded it carefully. 

“Why would he do that?” the officer asked, frowning. 

Joe shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I’m dying to find out.” Joe grinned at the police officer. He glanced down at his hands and unfolded the paper. The writing was familiar; he knew it right away, and he knew it was his man. His murderer. Scribbled on the paper in neat black ink were the words: 

_ People of victory.  _

“What does that mean?” the police officer asked. 

“I have no idea,” Joe admitted. “It’s interesting, though, isn’t it?” He paused. “Maybe he’s trying to brag. ‘People of victory.’” 

The police officer nodded. “As if he is saying ‘ _ I _ am the victor.’”

_ “I win,” _ Joe agreed. “He’s arrogant. He’s exceptionally arrogant. He thinks he’s going to get away with it because he has continued to get away with it for who knows how long. But it’s going to be different this time.”

The officer frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said, “What will be different?” 

“It’s going to be different,” Joe explained. 

“You think you can find him?” The officer mused. 

Joe smirked. “I do.” 

“I apologize for saying so, but now you sound a bit like the arrogant one.” 

“Maybe,” said Joe. “I’d like to think of myself as…” He paused. “Confident.” 

The police officer laughed and echoed, “Confident. Alright, let us go with that. And what is your plan? To find this mysterious man?” 

Joe sighed. “Let’s just say I know a guy who is very good at tracking people down.” 

* * *

**NICOLO**

Nicolò stood in front of the mirror, and he had been standing there for almost twenty minutes, occasionally shifting from side to side. The outfit he had chosen was simple. There wasn’t really much thought necessary. His wardrobe was nothing to write home about; simple dark t-shirts and jackets. Nicolò was taught early on in his career that blending in was the key, which was fine with him; he’d never been very stylish, and the rules of fashion, in general, had always seemed to escape him. Today was no different, though he felt significantly more self-conscious than usual. Choosing an outfit was easy enough; Nicolò reached blindly into his dresser like he normally did and threw on whatever it was that he’d grabbed, but looking at his reflection today, he just couldn’t help but feel completely insignificant. The forest green shirt was a bit too loose around his torso, yet somehow at the same time, it was too tight around his broad shoulders. His blue jeans hung low around his hips. Nothing seemed to fit the way he needed it to; he found himself questioning everything. Would the ill-fitting clothing affect the way the psychologist viewed him? Would he appear less put together than he actually was? 

“Are you ready yet?” Copley called from the other side of Nicolò’s bedroom door. “We’re going to be late, and you know how Mustafa can get when people miss their appointments.” 

“If I am, to be honest with you,” said Nicolò, “That sounds a bit like a  _ him  _ problem. He is a psychologist. He should be more empathetic. More understanding. Is that not part of his job?” The door opened, and Nicolò looked over his shoulder, grinning at Copley. “How do I look?” 

“You look fine,” Copley said flatly from where he stood, leaning against the doorframe. “Is this what you’ve spent all your time doing? Picking out an outfit?” Nicolò shrugged. “Nicky, I’ve seen your wardrobe,” Copley commented, “It’s the same four shirts and two pairs of pants; what could you possibly have been contemplating?” 

Nicolò shrugged again. “Perhaps I am looking to…” he trailed off, sighing, “Update my wardrobe.” 

“Update your wardrobe?” Copley echoed with a laugh. “I thought you liked being comfortable.” 

“I could be fashionable and comfortable at the same time,” Nicolò pointed out. 

Copley quirked an eyebrow. “I suppose you could,” he said, “What brought this on?” 

“I’m not sure,” Nicolò said. He paused for a moment, and then another, and then he smiled and walked up to Copley. “Perhaps I’d like to impress my new boyfriend.” Nicolò winked. 

“Mr. al-Kaysani is  _ not  _ your boyfriend,” said Copley. 

“He could be,” Nicolò argued. 

“I would not recommend it.” 

Nicolò crossed his arms over his chest. “Can I not have a bit of romance in my life?” he questioned. 

“He shot you in the arm,” Copley stated. 

“And I gave him a concussion,” Nicolò said, waving his hand dismissively. “I would call that even.” 

Copley chuckled. “I would call you insane.” 

“But the best people are, aren’t they?” Nicolò mused. “Insane?” 

“Perhaps in your book they are,” Copley said. 

“Well, then I must be correct.” 

“Must be.” 

Nicolò grinned. He bumped his shoulder into Copley’s. “I reckon I’ve got the best book on the shelf.” 

Copley’s gaze softened as it often did around the younger man, and he reached up, resting his hand on Nicolò’s arm, just above the gunshot wound, squeezing gently. “I reckon you do,” Copley said, voice low. “Come on. Let’s get this over with, hmm? It’ll be over before you know it. I promise.” 

“Okay,” said Nicolò. “But if this goes beyond an hour, I swear to you, James, I am walking out.” 

Copley smiled, and he nodded, once, briefly. “Deal.” He squeezed Nicolò’s arm once more and turned, walking through the apartment, Nicolò following close behind. Copley opened the front door and held it with his hand, standing to the side and allowing Nicolò to step out first. 

“We should get drinks,” said Nicolò, “Afterwards.” 

“I don’t know about that, Nicky,” Copley responded, stepping out after the assassin and turning to lock the door. 

“Right,” Nicolò hummed, “Because you’re so busy. You are  _ always  _ busy. Never any time for me. The same excuses over and over again.” He turned and started walking backward. “One drink? Per favore.” 

Copley reached out and spun Nicolò around again. “Enough of that. You’ll trip on the stairs.” 

“Grazie, padre,” Nicolò scoffed. “One drink. Just one drink. Please.”

Copley was quiet as they descended the stairs, and he remained silent until both men approached Copley’s car, a dark gray 2019 McLaren. Copley was fiddling with the radio until he seemingly landed on a station that he liked before turning his head towards Nicolò. “Alright,” said Copley. “One drink. But no more than that. And I choose the bar.” 

“Let me guess,” said Nicolò with a teasing scoff, “Capitol Lounge?” 

“You insult me, Nicolò,” Copley huffed, glancing over his shoulder once before backing out of his parking space. “I was thinking more of something like The Temple Bar.” He looked at Nicolò and snorted at the expression on the other man’s face. “Don’t think you’re the only one making good money in this work.” 

Nicolò turned his head towards the window. “May I ask you something?” he asked. 

“Sure,” said Copley. “Go on.” 

“Did you ever…” Nicolò trailed off, frowning. “Did you ever do what I did? Have you ever killed?” 

Copley drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead of him. “Well,” Copley said, “What do  _ you _ think?” 

“I think you’re avoiding the question,” Nicolò countered. 

_ “Humor me.”  _

Nicolò lolled his head back towards Copley. “You really want to know what I think, James? I don’t think you have it in you. I don’t think you’re capable of killing someone. It isn’t… Non è nel tuo sangue.” Nicolò shrugged. He reached down and adjusted his seat, letting it lean back all the way down until he was nearly flat, and he closed his eyes, smiling very slightly. “But that’s alright. You don’t have to. We can’t all be the same, can we? It would be boring. It would be very boring if we were all the same. Do you agree?” 

He watched as Copley’s fingers settled, tightening on the wheel. “I do,” Copley said, “I do agree very much.” 

Nicolò sat up and reached his hand out, fiddling with the radio, twisting and turning the knob until he settled on an acoustic version of Queen’s “Killer Queen” by someone who very notably was not Freddie Mercury before lying back down, tucking his hands beneath his head, closing his eyes again and singing quietly under his breath along to the lyrics. The car continued, and not another word passed between the two until they reached their destination. 

“Wake up,” Copley said, “We’re here.” 

“I wasn’t asleep,” Nicolò argued with a grunt. He sat up and pushed the passenger side door open. “Facciamola finita…” 

Copley approached the front door first, pressing the pad of his right pointer finger into the small scanning platform, holding it there, and several beats later, a small beeping sound floated up from the machine, and the door clicked open. The older man walked in first, only glancing over his shoulder once to make sure Nicolò was following behind him, half-smiling when he saw that Nicolò was, head down, hands in his pockets, and Copley couldn’t help but think,  _ how young  _ Nicolò really was at the end of the day; Just barely on the cusp of thirty with a face that betrayed his age to a much more youthful state. Copley could still remember when he first met Nicolò as clear and bright as if it had happened yesterday. The soon to be assassin had been no more than a child, only a hair's width past his teenage years and skinny. So skinny, with his bright green eyes sunken back, caked with the darkness of sleep lost, and Copley had thought, is this truly the boy I am meant to train? Is this truly a person who could commit the atrocities that caught our attention in the first place? 

But oh how Copley had underestimated him. Nicolò had been a remarkable listener and a fast learner. Before his recruitment, Nicolò had only spoken one language. One month later, under Copley’s supervision, he had become fluent in seven more. His previous kills had been carried out messily and quickly with a household kitchen knife, but after a year, he’d mastered techniques that some army men took a decade to perfect.

Simply put, Nicolò was brilliant. The best they had. Copley recalled Nicolò’s first assignment; Copley had been there with him, observing from a distance. Nicolò had been 21 then. Eager, though he would have never said it, and tasked with assassinating the CEO of a German tech company, a job that Copley had initially guess would take at least 24 hours to carry out successfully, so it was a surprise to him when only five hours after the two had landed in Hamburg, Nicolò was arriving back at their hotel and announcements were being made on the news that the CEO had been murdered. 

Copley led Nicolò to a discreet, unmarked office near the back of the building. He curled his fingers into a fist and rapped his knuckles against the door. A moment or two passed; locks rattled as they were being removed before the door swung open to reveal a young Black man dressed in a freshly pressed blue shirt and black jeans. Large square-shaped glasses were resting on top of the bridge of his nose. His gaze landed on Copley first, a wide grin pulling across his face as he reached for the other man, embracing him. 

“It’s been too long, Mustafa,” Copley chuckled. 

“Far too long,” Mustafa agreed. When the two parted, Mustafa cast a much more reserved glance Nicolò’s way, giving him a brief, polite nod, before beckoning Nicolò and Copley inside. 

The office was small, much smaller than Nicolò would think that one of the official Twelve psychologists would have. 

“Okay, Nicolò,” said Mustafa, “I’m going to start with a few obligatory questions.” 

Nicolò dropped both of his hands into his lap and looked up expectantly. 

“How are you feeling?” Mustafa asked. 

“Tired,” said Nicolò. “It has been a long forty-eight hours.” 

“Would you like to explain why that is?” 

Nicolò frowned. “Not particularly, no,” he said, “But I have the strangest feeling that I don’t really have a choice.” 

“Good observation,” said Mustafa, though he didn’t appear to have much more to add, only sitting back and watching the assassin expectantly. In the armchair next to him, Copley watched along as well. “Very smart of you.”

“I pride myself on my big brain,” Nicolò said with a tight-lipped grin. He leaned back and cleared his throat, coughing purposefully. “If you must know, I was shot in the arm, quite rudely might I add.” 

Mustafa frowned, only slightly. “Did it hurt?” 

“Of course it hurt,” said Nicolò. 

“Would you like to explain what happened?” Mustafa asked. 

Nicolò glanced at Copley, whose face remained frustratingly neutral, the older man only nodding his head in approval. “I was on assignment yesterday, and someone followed me when I left.” 

“Is that it?” Mustafa said. 

“Is there anything more you need to know?” Nicolò questioned gruffly. “I was shot by a trigger-happy police officer. That’s all. I think the most important part of the whole story is that I’m here. I got away.” 

Mustafa inhaled sharply. He glanced at Copley, who only shrugged. Mustafa clicked the top of the pen and scribbled down a quick note, too illegible for Nicolò to read, no matter how hard he strained to see the writing. “Have you been taking care of yourself?” Mustafa asked when he looked up again. “Eating healthy? Working out?” 

“Yes,” said Nicolò. 

“To which question?” Mustafa said.

Nicolò shrugged. “Both. I try at least,” he said, “I’m sure that’s the point.” 

“Of course,” Mustafa agreed. “What do you do for exercise?” 

“I recently purchased a Peloton,” Nicolò responded. 

Copley sighed. 

“I’m serious,” Nicolò pressed, “I did.” 

“That’s good,” said Mustafa, shaking his head at Copley. “What else do you do in your free time?” 

Nicolò paused, seeming to consider his answer for several quiet moments. “I don’t know,” the assassin said, “I read. I watch television. Sometimes I travel.” 

“Good,” Mustafa said. He made a quick dash of writing on his pad of paper, drumming the side of his pen against his knee when he was done. Mustafa quirked his head to the side, looking at Nicolò as if appraising him carefully. “Very good. And do you ever do these activities with another person? A friend perhaps?”

Nicolò stiffened, the muscles hidden beneath his jawline jumping. “No,” he said, “No friends.” 

“Why is that, Nicolò?” Mustafa asked. 

Nicolò laughed humorlessly, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. “You know why,” Nicolò said icily, “But you want me to say it myself. Don’t you?” When Mustafa didn’t respond, Nicolò snickered. “I can’t have friends. I can never have friends. It’s the first thing they tell you when you join the Twelve. You accept that your life will never be normal; you can’t have the same things as normal people. It’s a part of the deal.” 

“How does that make you feel?” Mustafa said. 

Nicolò snorted and shook his head again. “Have you any idea how cliche you sound right now?” the assassin mused.

“Please answer the question,” Mustafa said, voice unwavering. 

Nicolò tilted his head towards the window, the only view visible to him from his perspective, the darkening sky. It would rain soon, he thought to himself. He ducked his head and stared at the floor. The nose of his right shoe was splattered with mud, and beneath his foot, he could see loose strands from the carpet that were calling him to reach down and tug free. 

“I’m fine,” Nicolò answered evenly, “No. I’m more than fine. I’m  _ great. I’m perfect.  _ I am completely and totally happy.” 

Mustafa scribbled on his notepad, striking a line twice beneath one of the words he had written. “Why didn’t you kill the girl, Nicolò?” he questioned. 

“That is the…” Nicolò trailed off, laughing to himself. “That is the question.” 

“It is,” Mustafa agreed. “Would you mind telling me the answer?” 

Nicolò looked up, meeting Mustafa’s gaze. He was quiet, the silence itself so thick, Nicolò wondered if he could take one of his treasured knives and cut through it. His heart was drumming a steady beat deep inside of his head, and Nicolò’s fingers twitched, gripping onto the material of his sleeve, nails digging into his arm. 

“The answer is I don’t know,” Nicolò said. “I truly, truly don’t know.” 

Mustafa stared at him for several long moments. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Copley leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Mustafa nodded, and Copley reached into his pocket, holding out a photograph: a mugshot of a middle-aged man with porcelain white skin, a stubbled jawline, and sharp green eyes. Nicolò looked at the photo unblinkingly. 

“I’m not entirely sure what you want me to say,” Nicolò said with a sigh, lifting his head and attempting to appear casual, though the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed his true feelings. “He looks like a very unpleasant man.” 

“Are you sure about that?” said Copley. 

_ “I am,”  _ Nicolò retorted sharply. 

“Who is this, Nicolò?” Mustafa asked. 

Nicolò glanced from Copley to Mustafa, to the photo, and then back to Copley, teeth clenching. “Questo e mio padre,” Nicolò said, and his voice was hoarse as if he had just swallowed a handful of glass. As if it had hurt him to say so. “But it is him from  _ years  _ ago,” the assassin dismissed with a scoff. “He does not look like that now.” 

“How would you know?” Copley asked, not unkindly. 

Nicolò shrugged with one shoulder, and he replied, “Just a feeling. My father is not the sort of person to age gracefully.” He paused. “Or, he’s not the sort of person who deserves to age gracefully.” 

Mustafa leaned forward. “Nicolò,” the psychologist said. 

“Mr. King,” Nicolò said. 

“When was the last time you saw your family?” Mustafa asked. “When was the last time you saw your father?” 

Nicolò was silent. His face had suddenly become very hot, and a distinct redness tinted his cheeks. “ Perché mi fai una domanda del genere…”  Nicolò murmured, so quietly that Mustafa and Copley exchanged a frown and a glance. 

“What did you say?” Mustafa asked. 

_ “Why would you ask me something like that?”  _ Nicolò repeated, his words sharp and cold. 

He stood abruptly and walked through the space between the two armchairs, towards the door, and out into the hallway, ignoring Copley’s calls for him to come back. Nicolò didn’t stop moving until he was outside of the building, pressing his back into the wall adjacent to the door, his breathing heavy, his eyes burning, and his hands shaking. He wanted a drink. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted anything to numb the piercing anguish that was pushing at the back of his head. Nicolò turned and pressed his forehead into the wall, lifting both of his palms and resting them there as well, on either side of his head. The assassin wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he didn’t have to turn his head to know it was Copley. 

“What?” Nicolò murmured, eyes closed.

Copley’s hand moved from Nicolò’s shoulder to his upper back. “Good news,” he said softly, “You’re cleared.” 

Nicolò opened his eyes again. “I am?” 

“One hundred percent,” said Copley, his palm slipping away. “I think that warrants a bit of celebration. How about that drink?” 

Nicolò blinked. He stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Alright,” Nicolò said. “I… I would like that.” 

Copley seemed to hesitate for a moment; he looked uncomfortable. “Are you okay?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Nicolò mused, forcing a grin. 

“You don’t have to be okay.” 

Nicolò leaned his head back, staring up at the sky. It had begun to rain, just a little, only a drop here or there. One landed on top of his nose. “I know,” Nicolò said. He lifted his hand, turning it palm up, and another raindrop landed there, and he watched the water slide over his skin, embedding itself in his flesh. 

“Oh,” said Copley, “And one more thing before we go.” 

Nicolò turned to him, frowning. “Yes?” 

“I have your next assignment,” Copley said, reaching inside his suit jacket and pulling out a small, square-shaped polaroid, passing it to the assassin. There were only two bits of information on the photograph’s back: the man’s name and his current location. 

_ Sebastien le Lievre  _

_ London, England _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank again to anonymonypony for all their help with editing! 
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed this chapter. kudos and comments are not required but are most appreciated.


End file.
